


Woke Up With a Boy (Who Looks Just Like You)

by glitteredcurls



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anxious Harry, Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, OT5 Friendship, Time Travel, not that they know that though, otra era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 18:03:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17411621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteredcurls/pseuds/glitteredcurls
Summary: Harry goes to sleep in his shared flat with Louis. He wakes up older and sharing something more with his best friend-- a bed. Harry doesn’t know where the past four years of his life have gone. There is quite a bit he’s forgotten, but still would have never guessed for himself. The only thing familiar is Louis, who seems to mean something different to him at his new age than he did before… Harry just can’t seem to place how.OR snapshots of the week Louis and Harry jump four years into their (unknowingly married) future suddenly and have to gather their bearings without alerting anyone else.





	Woke Up With a Boy (Who Looks Just Like You)

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something that has been bothering me for the past two months finally done! I tried to be as date accurate as I could without digging through articles and getting a tad invasive. Used real people outside the boys only when it mattered and honestly tried not to be too Period Accurate. Although, with what possible inconsistencies I probably have, I tried to have them match within the verse.  
> Carry on!

Harry went to sleep in his own bed, door closed and Louis still out in the living room on the phone with his mother. It was colder than usual in the house, a draft stirring Harry awake intermittently. He kept thinking about grabbing socks-- they were _just_ across the room in his dresser-- but his exhaustion won out every time. Tour rehearsal had been zapping Harry’s energy faster than he had time to recuperate. Every day, Harry met more people than he’d ever known his whole life. It was humbling, exhausting, and terrifying, but at least he always came home with the same person. Louis was a common fixture in his life, a stable shoulder to lean and admittedly cry on during the longer nights.

Their hands always fit together nicely, Harry squeezing tightly and trying to keep his lips from trembling as he sat with the other boys in brain scrambling business meetings. He was embarrassed by his own anxiety, but it was always Louis that looked at his red swollen eyes with kind, understanding ones and hushed it all away. Sure, Harry was living with someone other than his mother for the first time in his life and dependency was bound to change the relationship-- but that wasn’t all to blame.

Harry definitely, most _definitely_ , had a crush on Louis. They’d exchanged timid words once, quietly under the same blanket on the couch, but the conversation halted when they both felt fear shadow their palpitating hearts. They left the conversation out in the cold and never touched it again.

Cold. Fuck, Harry needed socks. He could feel a shiver building up under his skin, waiting to shake him awake.

It was late at night, that timeless stretch when it seemed that every atom on the Earth had turned in to rest before starting over with the sun. Being awake felt isolating and wrong, like Harry was the only person awake in the entire city of London-- on the entire Earth.

Harry groaned and pushed his covers back, truly regretting not wearing much else than his underwear to bed. An idiot, really. An idiot about to suffer from hypothermia, but still a bloody idiot. He sniffled and ran a hand over his face. His body felt heavy, his hand nearly knocking him out. He turned and slid his legs off the mattress and onto the floor--

It was cold. He had a rug under his bed-- well, he _usually_ did. His feet were resting on chilled hardwood. It was pitch black. The curtains of his window had been pulled shut and all lights off to sleep, but Harry tried to squint and see the room. The darkness felt unfamiliar. He couldn’t see a damn thing, but the hanging, silent air felt altered. He muttered to himself and leaned down to touch the floor-- maybe Louis rolled the rug up as a prank just to fuck with him if he got up to use the toilet in the middle of the night.

His hand slapped against the floor, the sound echoing and making Harry’s small corner bedroom sound far more empty, like it extended out in every direction.

“Would you stop making so much fuckin’ noise, ‘m tryna sleep.”

Harry yelled and twisted to face the voice, effectively throwing himself off the bed and onto the floor. He scrambled, his legs not cooperating and skidding him across the floor. His back hit the side table, a faint wobbling sound telling Harry there still was a lamp there-- just how he left it-- and he hurried to turn it on.

The room was not his own. It was at least the size of his flat’s living room, pale hardwood flooring and off-gray walls framing him in. There was a long glass door to his right, reaching out to a balcony. It couldn’t have been any earlier than two in the morning, but the horizon was lit up with the buzzing city down below. The room looked far too expensive to even _breathe_ in, but somehow Harry was sprawled on the floor, panting, nearly screaming, and in only his fucking _underwear_.

Worse though-- _somehow_ worse-- he wasn’t alone. There was someone, a man presumably by the voice, lying in the bed-- _his_ bed possibly-- with his head tucked into his arm and burrowing into a pillow.

“What the hell are you doing in my room?” Harry was the one half naked, so he assumed he was in the correct place somehow.

“What?” The man grumbled, lifting his head slowly. His hair was a mess. It was in short tufts around his head but in a long, untamed mop elsewhere. It swooped down over his forehead and Harry couldn’t see his face clearly. “Wait. What are you doing here?”

The man pushed himself up in bed, luckily in more clothes than Harry, and pulled the blankets in around him. One hand held onto them for comfort while the other ran through his hair, pushing it back to give Harry a more clear view of the face he’d be describing to a police sketch artist.

Except, Harry wouldn’t need to look. He knew that face already.

It was the same kind and patient face that had been staring at him hours before, asking him if he was _really_ okay before he went off to bed. It was older now, had facial hair disguising half of it, but it was still familiar. It was still Louis.

“Louis? I-Is that you?”

“Harry? What in God’s name--” Louis stopped and looked over Harry for far longer than Harry felt he was looking at Louis. He remembered he was only in his underwear and tried to cover himself with his arms. “You’re… You’re…”

“What?” Harry looked down at himself nervously, afraid he had embarrassed himself. He was unsure who he was looking at.

There were more tattoos than Harry thought necessary on any human being inked up and down the left arm trying to cover his chest. His body underneath wasn’t much better: two birds resting by his collar bone, a butterfly sitting comfortably on the tight stretch of his upper stomach, and laurel leaves sitting on the curve of his hips.

“When did you get all those?” Louis leaned forward in bed, squinting to get a better look. “When did you get so… so fucking _tall_?” He muttered.

“What about you!” Harry squawked, waving an unfamiliarly large hand out toward Louis. “Y-You were just on the phone with your mum… Now you’re in _my bed_ with a bloody _beard_.” Louis’ hand reached up and felt his chin, surprised but still somehow delighted by the hair he felt spotting his cheeks.

“I could always grow a little facial hair--”

“A _little_?” Harry scoffed.

“-- but you… you look like a fucking Woodstock wannabe!” Louis laughed as he pointed at Harry. “You’re a grown fucking man!”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Harry was trying to spend more time looking at Louis than at himself. It was how things usually were anyway. In this bizarre fever dream, Harry felt compelled to study the new matured shape of Louis’ face. His eyes looked more tired, more dark and heavy, but his smile was just as warm to Harry.

“Haz, look at yourself!” He moved out from underneath some of the blankets as he pointed again. Harry spotted a stretch of tattoos over Louis’ arm. He wanted to fully process his shock, but Louis’ disbelief overrode his confusion.

In a second glance, one that avoided the tattoos, Harry noticed a drastic change in the body he’d gone to sleep with. He was taller, broader, and looked like he-- or whoever had been running this body-- had been working out. It occurred to Harry then that maybe he wasn’t seventeen anymore.

“What happened to us?” Harry muttered, lowering his arm and looking at himself with critical eyes. A long strand of hair fell into his peripherals. Harry tucked it behind his ear to find that there was a lot _more_ hair like it, hanging down and grazing the tops of his shoulders. “Louis, what happened?”

“I-I don’t know.” He answered quietly. His own eyes had left Harry to take in the designs under his skin, running up and down his arms in ways he’d always detested before. “I look like a goddamn doodle.”

“I think I might have ink poisoning.” Harry agreed, slowly walking back to the bed. “I can’t imagine what half of these mean.”

“Meaning? You think these have meaning? I’ve got a _sword_ on my arm.” Louis jabbed his finger into it with accusation. “Whoever did this is a fucking idiot.”

“...didn’t _we_ do it?” Harry said, still trying to guess. “I mean, we’re still ourselves right?”

“Harry, you look five years older than when you went to sleep.” Louis argued, looking at him sternly. Authority and confidence looked better on Louis in his older age-- it was attractive.

 _Oh good_ , Harry thought. _One thing didn’t change_.

“A-Amnesia?” Harry said with a shrug. “This feels too real to be a dream. This feels way too real.” Harry was looking around for something to seem hazy or half-contrived, like a detail his brain never bothered to flesh out in its fugue state. Everything was in clear focus. Harry was even able to read Louis’ tattoos. “We’re not dreaming.”

“This is bullshit.” Louis grumbled, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. “Why can’t we remember?”

“I-I don’t know.” Harry pulled at the blankets on the bed and covered his legs. They really were fucking long, weren’t they?

Under the covers, Harry could feel the comforting warmth of another body-- Louis’ body-- resting close to him. The sheets were losing the heat quickly, but Harry could still chase the feeling of Louis’ stretched out arms. The intimacy was traced with guilt. It wasn’t the most important thing to be worried about. They were missing God knew how many years of their life, and Harry’s crush was speaking louder than any common sense.

Although, it seemed to be raising one fair point:

“W-Why were we asleep in the same bed?” Harry asked, looking at the state of the bed. It was blended: sheets pulled, blankets lying over both sides, pillows pressed together. It wasn’t the appearance of sharing a mattress to sleep separately. The bed looked like two people had been sleeping together.

“I don’t know.” Louis muttered, running his hands over the sheets slowly. “I mean… we share-- _used_ to share, I guess-- in our flat. It’s not that strange. Just, startling I guess if we don’t remember inviting either of us into our bed.”

“Yeah. Yeah that makes sense.” Harry nodded. On many occasions during the day, Louis would come padding into Harry’s room with tea and a strict agenda of doing nothing. But that was when the warm sun cast over their bodies and left them exposed by the shame of attentiveness; the night offered vulnerability and the secrets of blindness. They’d never slept together before, but Harry wasn’t going to split _that_ hair at the moment.

“Maybe I should go back to my bed.” Louis said, pushing the blankets back. “We’ll both wake up from this… _whatever_ back in our own beds.”

“Okay. Yeah.” Harry didn’t want to sound disappointed. “Good idea.”

Louis stood from bed, Harry finally getting a full look of him. He was a man, a proper gruff and grown man. He was wearing a worn Rancid shirt with flannels far too long for him-- possibly Harry’s, he considered, once looking back at his own legs. Louis shuffled out slowly, feeling his own chest and legs as he walked. Harry knew the feeling.

“Uh, ‘night, Lou.” Harry said, pulling his knees to his chest.

“‘Night, Haz. See you when you’re back to normal.” He smiled before opening the bedroom door and leaving.

Harry avoided taking in the rest of the room or even trying to catch his reflection. He would just need to lay down and drift back into a calm sleep, still slightly shivering but definitely on his way to losing some four years off his life again. His feet were still cold, but the adrenaline had warmed him enough to at least get bundled up and feign readiness to sleep. He closed his eyes and waited for his heart rate to level out again. Waited to not feel like he was spinning and about to lose his mind--

“Harry?” Louis said, his footsteps rushing back up to the room. Harry sat up and greeted Louis pushing the door open with aged, worried eyes. “There isn’t another bedroom.

Oh, shit. “There isn’t?”

“Not one.”

“Oh.” Harry muttered. Louis stood in the doorway, unsure if he could even ask for permission. Harry was unsure if he was allowed to give it. “You can, if you want...”

“Can what?” They were both playing stupid, if anything to protect their hearts. Somehow older but still as fragile as ever.

“Sleep. Here. Next to me.” Harry moved the covers back to give Louis back his spot in bed-- _their_ bed.

“It’ll be alright-- it’s just what, a few hours before we wake up and go back to normal?” Louis laughed and waved it away, but moved toward Harry slowly.

“Yeah. It’s nothing. We’ve done it before.”

“Right.” Louis nodded, grabbing the blankets.

“Right.”

As Louis climbed back into bed, the shift in balance made Harry’s stomach drop. Even if he had his eyes closed, even when he turned out the light again, he could still feel the person beside him. The darkness felt short, like it had an end. It ended just to Harry’s left, where his hand would brush up against Louis’ back or his arm.

Eventually the darkness shrank all the way down around Harry’s skin, his exhaustion chasing him down and lolling him back to sleep. He didn’t need socks again, luckily. Once Harry fell asleep, he stayed asleep.

Only problem was, when he woke up-- eyes blinking in the bright morning sun, back cracking in his first stretch of a curled up sleep, and mind only slightly hazy-- Harry could still feel the weight beside him. Louis was still asleep, hair messy and stubble dark; still older, although asleep returning him to a more familiar innocence; still causing Harry’s heart to chase itself around in his rib cage, trying to burst out through his throat.

Loving Louis, albeit secretly and naively, was something Harry thought was only created in dreams. This seemed to be a full-fledged nightmare.

He didn’t want to wake Louis, didn’t want to ruin his appearance of calm composure with the confrontation that his best friend was still half naked and sharing their bed. He laid back down, arms crossed over his chest, and waited. He had more than enough tattoos to study in the time being, hoping to get to know the Harry that chose them. The Harry that got him to that point.

He hoped he liked him. More importantly, Harry hoped Louis liked him.

* * *

Once awake, they silently agreed to migrate to the kitchen. Harry was at the counter and Louis on the other side pouring them both tea. Simple comforts to try and piece their memories together.

“Okay, so let's get everything out there.” Louis said firmly, holding both hands out in front of him in direct focus. His voice was deeper than Harry ever remembered. It made paying attention easier, since Harry could listen to him speak all day, but harder since the exact words he spoke weren’t going in clearly. “What do you remember.”

“Waking up.” Harry said with a shrug. He watched Louis’ arms flex as he reached into a top cabinet. All his soft and sweet features had sharpened. Harry could only hope to be cut. “I mean… That’s it.”

“Fuck. Me too. That’s all I got.” Louis’ confidence was misdirected, but didn’t sway. “So did we just… _wake up_ like this?”

“I guess?” Harry shrugged, curling his fingers around his mug as Louis slid it toward him. He hoped their fingers would overlap for a moment. “I mean, I can’t remember a single minute of the last… How long do you think it’s been?”

“Four years.” Louis pulled his phone out of his pocket and placed it on the counter between them. It was larger than the last one Harry remembered Louis having; the one Harry was handed and told to put his phone number into only a few brief moments after meeting. “We’ve skipped about four year of our lives.”

“Should we call someone?” Harry said timidly. “I mean, do we have any friends from before?”

“How the fuck should I know?” Louis sighed. “Let’s see who I’ve called uh, I don’t know them or them…. Oh, Niall! Two days ago.”

“Give him a ring, maybe?” Harry took a sip of tea. It surely didn’t feel like four years since he’d had tea. He didn’t feel like he’d been deprived of anything, like he’d been missing even a blink of his life. Everything was foreign, but he had the impression he should have been content.

“And tell him what?” Louis said. “What if we’re not even in a group anymore, Harry. We’re going to sound insane.”

“We’re going to sound crazy regardless.” Harry said. “We woke up sharing a bed.”

“We’re telling _no one_ that part.” Louis said with a swift shake of his head. His tone dropped to a hush. He didn’t sound plagued by shame, but instead something undefinable Harry couldn’t catch in time. “We’ll just… piece it together. We can do this. We’re in this together.”

“Okay.” There was no argument that they’d stick together. Louis could have suggested they just keep trying to go to sleep in hopes of waking up differently, and Harry would have laid down beside him until they both grew impossibly older together.

“Oh! Wait, maybe I have a calendar or something.” Louis said, looking through his phone again. “Better yet, Harry, maybe _you_ do.” He laughed, pointing at him through a folded-over sleeve.

“I’ll see what I can find.” Harry pulled his phone out of his pocket. In the messy rush of pulling out every drawer to try and find clothes to cover himself, Harry found his phone and a hair tie to pull up the mess of hair weighing his head down.

His wallpaper was simple. It was a photo of a note scrawled on a page corner. There were lines crossed off and rewritten around it. The line that survived all the revisions was clear and purposeful: _Baby, we could be enough._ Harry didn’t know the poem it was from, but it sounded lovely.

He was thankful this new phone of his opened with just his finger because any and all passwords he’d created in the past four years didn’t carry with him through his sleep. He would have been severely fucked-- well, more so than before.

His calendar was full, nearly overwhelming. He had plans for the rest of the week typed out, and small notes in previous days notating things he’d already done to keep track. Most previous days were written in shorthand, leaving Harry lost to his own notes, but that day’s plans were typed clearly.

_Last rehearsal 1pm. Car @ noon._

“This says rehearsal at one o’clock.” Harry read. “A car is coming at twelve. Whatever that means.”

“Rehearsal? Do you think it’s for us.” Louis made a circular motion, like the other three boys were standing around him.

“It has to be.” Harry said, scrolling back through the week. “Here, two weeks ago! We apparently all had a meeting for, uh, ‘ _otra_ ’? I don’t--I don’t know what that is.”

“I’m sure that’s the least of our issues.” Louis said, lifting his mug. “Ten minutes ago we didn’t know how old we were. Working on the basics first.”

“Like work. We have work in about… two hours.”

“We do nothing before I finish this.” Louis said with a laugh.

They fell into silence as Louis drank, Harry scrolling through and trying to decode at least the past few weeks of his life. Even before, their breakfasts were always a shared experience. Harry always picking out of Louis’ cereal bowl or deciding to cook for them both before long rehearsal or studio days. Harry would always be disheveled from sleep and Louis would shuffle into the kitchen, grumbling about the cold or their schedule, before plopping down at their table,

Mornings were honest. Harry could look over at Louis, just out of bed, and see a regular boy. Not a singer or a rockstar, or even someone recognizable at all. When he rolled out of bed and croaked out Harry’s name as his first word of the day, he was someone Harry felt he had all to himself. An average boy living with above average circumstances, and getting every ounce of the love that someone as average as Harry had to give.

“It says we have tour coming up soon.” Harry found the first show of tour listed that coming Saturday. “Fuck. We fly out in four days.”

“Fly where?” Louis said, quickly rounding the counter to look over Harry’s shoulder.

“Australia.” Harry read. He turned to look up at Louis, biting his lip. “You ever been?”

“No.”

“Ever flown like that?”

“...No.”

“Have any idea what we’re getting ourselves into?”

Louis laughed and smiled at Harry. “No fucking idea.”

“Okay. So it’s not just me.” Harry placed his phone down slowly, deciding it was better to be clueless at that point. If they had a tour on Saturday, that meant they’d have to learn everything for the show-- the _months_ of shows they’d be doing-- in four days.

Harry could feel his hands involuntarily begin to shake on the counter. Rehearsals were draining as it was-- the amount of effort to keep smiling and laughing, to keep his voice steady and clean and not wavering was too much for one day. He wasn’t sure how he was going to cram months of rehearsal into one day and expect to make it through. He’d crumble immediately. He’d disappoint everyone that had expected the mature and put-together Harry they learned to love but Harry was just starting to meet. Four years and Harry was going to fuck it all up in a minute, he just knew it.

“Harry?” Louis said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “It’s going to be alright.”

“You can’t possibly know that. We’re clueless. We’ve got songs to learn and set lists to memorize and movements to have down and--”

“We’ll see it all when we get there. And we’ll come home and rehearse all day and night until that first show, okay? We’ll get this smoothed out while we figure out what else is going on. Low suspicion first though, so focus on our job and then the… sudden memory loss.” Louis’ hand slid over Harry’s shoulders, rubbing a gentle circle between them. “I won’t leave you alone for one second.”

Comfort couldn’t age. Harry closed his eyes and felt his tension melt through his jittery hands. He knew Louis was beside him, smiling with a fondness that would only get Harry’s pulse rate back up and racing, but for far better reasons.

Even though they didn’t remember the four years, that much time seemed like too long to wait before trying to revive their abandoned conversation. To everyone except the person harboring it, crushes could expire. Louis most likely expected that Harry’s feelings had fizzled out and left him unamazed. Time did nothing to shrink Harry’s swelling heart. If anything, suddenly waking up to a new Louis, one that undoubtedly had been shaped by his own stronger, more independent decisions, only made Harry more infatuated. He had lived with Louis and spent every waking moment with him since they’d met, but now he was different and Harry wanted to get to know everything new about him.

Harry just only wished Louis remembered.

“I’m going to get ready. Sure it’ll take me at least an hour to find where all my clothes are.” Harry said, taking his mug with him as he stood from his chair. Throughout their morning, something settled between them that confirmed it was Harry’s home. Although, it didn’t seem like Louis was supposed to be much of a visitor either.

The bedroom was easily spotted from the kitchen; just a diagonal walk across the open living area to the door. There weren’t any hallways, the entire layout seemingly revolving around the idea of having a giant center room, somewhere communal and homely. With the mass wall space though, the previous reiteration of Harry seemed busy with decor. There were picture frames equally spaced across the entire room. They were of all different sizes, colors, film type-- but they had one thankful theme: Louis, Liam, Niall, and Zayn were with Harry in nearly every single one. The memories were foreign but at least didn’t seem wrong.

Inside the bedroom, the photos were more sparingly placed on the walls. Instead they rested on the tops of his dresser and vanity. Harry placed his mug down in front of the three paneled mirror, careful not to hit his overabundance of glasses frames and jewelry. He pulled the stout stool out and sat down, trying not to stare too long at the stranger blinking at him in the mirror. There were many memories, note scraps, pressed flowers, and photos tucked into the frame of the mirror, but Harry tried to find the most recent one.

The picture looked newly printed, the gloss rough and squeaking against his fingertips as he pulled it out. He recognized all his friends immediately, but still took his time familiarizing himself with their stronger features and comfortable smiles. Zayn was the farthest left, arms wrapped tightly around Liam’s waist and nearly hoisting him off the ground. Louis, in between Liam and Harry, had Liam’s foot in his hand and was lifting it up much to Liam’s amused horror. The three of them were frozen in a blur of laughter and undoubted screaming. Louis was smiling at Liam the way best friends did when they got under their skin just to prove they were the closest to them. Harry gently placed his fingers over the three of them, tracing their outlines and trying to memorize, even before he saw it for himself, what Liam and Louis being genuine friends looked like at this age.

Behind Louis, Niall had his arms firmly snaked around Harry’s shoulders, pulling him close. His lips were pursed into a fish-kiss, just barely hovering over his cheek. Both of Harry’s hands were lifted to cover his mouth, feigning shock-- or hiding a shit-eating grin. Either was possible. Harry always thought Niall was a charming boy, a great friend to have in his corner.

Due to the length of Harry’s hair, he knew the photo wasn’t much older than his strange nightmare-- maybe the weeks before. He scanned his outfit to try and understand how he dressed this new body. His shirt was more brightly patterned than he would have guessed for himself and far less buttoned, but Harry didn’t think it was that far off from his own taste. Looking at it, he didn’t feel alienated or distant from the future he was discovering. He was starting to like this Harry.

On his hands, thankfully clear from his pose and clarity of the photo, he had the same rings that rested beside his mug of tea. His outfit and the nature of the photo didn’t suggest they were at any sort of event that required dressing up; rings just must have been part of Harry’s routine. He had no room to question and matched the photo’s positions, checking his lefts and rights multiple times before standing to redress himself.

As he was skimming through his closet, Louis knocked on the door quietly.

“Can I come in?”

“One second.” Harry called, quickly grabbing a plain parchment colored button down. The hanger swung and clanked against the top shelf of the closet as Harry hurried to button himself up and cover his chest-- well, as much as he seemed to cover it in his photos. “Okay, you can!”

“Okay so-- you look nice.” Louis said firstly, cutting off his own thoughts.

“Oh. Thank you.” Harry flattened his shirt with his sweaty palms. “Just followed a photo.” His hand weakly pointed to his vanity.

“That’s… That’s actually really genius.” Louis laughed, walking to the photo resting beside his cooled tea mug. Louis was dressed in all black, a sweatshirt unzipped and hanging low on his waist. The clothes seemed to wear a bit bigger on Louis much to his flattery, which was in great luck considering Harry wasn’t sure if Louis had any clothes there.

He still hadn’t decided if Louis actually lived there too. Sure, it seemed to be Harry’s home, as noticed by the bright color palette in the closet, but there were also large sections of muted blacks, grays, and blues filtered through. It looked like the presence of another man, or just another style in his life. They had no one to ask.

Louis carried the photo with him to the closet, looking between his outfit and the shirts before him. He skimmed the clothes without acknowledging Harry beside him, without acknowledging that he was going to involve Harry in his morning routine. It wasn’t strange when they were in their flat, but it felt strange in their aged state. There were so many things they didn’t know and understand, having a say in how Louis decided to pick his clothes that day felt too intimate. It was the clearest thing Harry would know about his day.

“I’ll leave you to it.” He said, shuffling to the vanity for his mug and phone. “I’ll just finish my tea out here.”

“Okay?” Louis said, an unsure tone following Harry out the door. “Shouldn’t be a minute.”

The door shut before Harry had the silence to respond. He fell back into the couch and carefully balanced his mug on the armrest beside him. It was troubling him he couldn’t tell who was the stranger to the home. Harry assumed himself, but then again, it seemed Louis thought the same of himself as well. Roommates made the most sense, but with only one room Harry’s theory was squashed. Maybe their leap-- or whatever caused Harry to wake up at least four inches taller and with a voice far deeper than he remembered-- kept them together on accident. Wherever Louis lived then was empty, thanks to Louis leaving their time and their flat and arriving in the future with Harry.

Nothing made any fucking sense, so why should any reasoning?

Beside his tea, his phone vibrated and clattered against the ceramic. It was an alert from an online gossip paper. An unfamiliar name had sent it to him with a string of amused reactions. Before opening it, Harry spent a solid minute deciding if it was technically opening someone else’s messages, considering the current Harry he was was _not_ the main recipient. He decided that copying clothes from a photo was enough to say he was near assimilation and opened the text, tapping the link.

It was an article about Harry. There was a photo of him leaving a parking garage, the place unfamiliar but his stern and furrowed expression even more so. Cut next to Harry was a photo of Louis looking similarly disgruntled but walking through the walks of an airport instead.

_One Direction facing trouble before new tour: Louis Tomlinson says he and fellow bandmate Harry Styles and him “aren’t close”_

The article was dated the day previous, the news seemingly breaking to the site. At least Harry wasn’t the last to find out.

He scanned the article quickly, trying to follow the catch up expository paragraph about the past four years. There were names of women he didn’t know and quotes he couldn’t imagine hearing come from Louis. At least, not the Louis he knew.

_Tomlinson and long term girlfriend have been spotted looking at houses in Bristol earlier this month after being snapped in Los Angeles just weeks prior. Shopping for their dream home or planting escape routes for the incoming nine month tour?_

The phrase “long term girlfriend” was highlighted in pink, linking Harry to another article. He debated following the sites obvious nosy tactics, but if anyone was allowed to click the links and read up on personal information, he figured it was him. His heart was fragile and confused, and the promise of having it broken in the privacy of his own home sounded more promising than any public sphere.

_Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles disprove all rumors of budding “bromance” by setting the record straight: “We don’t really talk”._

_One Direction splitting in two? Harry Styles and Louis Tomlinson less friendly than fans have thought._

_Harry Styles not seen at Louis Tomlinson’s charity football game after open invitation is sent to all band members during short break._

Even though Harry had just left him, smiling and comfortable, he could feel a wedge between him and Louis. The mystery to the new Louis suddenly felt threatening; it was thorned and unpromising. A knot formed in his chest, tugging hard and deep into his stomach. Harry wanted to learn what he had missed about his best friend-- what they both missed-- but in doing so, something apparently soured. It churned Harry inside out to think there was something about Louis that he met and didn’t like. Even more so he was wounded to think there was something _he_ did that effectively cut Louis from his life.

“Alright. I think I look pretty damn convincing for a twenty-three year old.” Louis laughed, walking out of the bedroom. Harry slammed his phone down, blinking away his stinging tears. Louis was in black jeans that surprisingly fit him, a long tank top that swung around his upper thigh. It was far less busy than what Harry was used to Louis wearing. He knew Louis was typically handed those bright colors and patterns, but there was something off-putting about his first entirely chosen outfit in their new age looking so dark.

Harry wanted to spot the unfamiliarities in him, see the things that pointed to a stranger in Louis, but he truly was convincing. Harry believed he was still nineteen, still his roommate.

“The car comes in a bit,” Harry said, nodding at Louis’ sentence but not wanting to directly engage.

“Okay.” Louis looked noticeably taken aback. “Tryin’ to get rid of me?”

“No. Just… checked the time, ya know?” Harry said. Older him was still a very bad liar, especially when being stared at by the pair of eyes that made him the weakest.

“What d’you read?” Louis walked forward, knowing he was right and not giving Harry the chance to deflect.

“Nothing.” He tried anyway.

“Someone text you?”

“No.”

“Harry, I was born at night, but not _last_ night.” He said, lifting an eyebrow. “Out with it, mate.”

Harry didn’t want to be the bearer of bad news. He didn’t mean any of the things written in the articles he’d read, why should he let it be repeated to Louis? They had a chance to recreate their own images of themselves and Harry steered them both toward heartbreak.

“I found out you don’t live here.” Harry phrased it in the most familiar terms.

“Oh, alright then. That’s fine.” Louis shrugged. “So I spent the night, right? Maybe we were absolutely _tabled_ and that’s why the past few years are gone.” He laughed and Harry did too, if only trying to make it true.

Harry picked up his phone and reopened it to the first article. He presented it to Louis with a slow breath. “Well, that and you’re looking for houses with your girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend?” Louis repeated the word with a stark incredulousness that, for a moment, Harry mistook as fear. “I’ve still got one?”

“Yeah. She’s in there.” Harry pointed at the screen, having been staring at her long enough to know there was a photo under the main mass of text. “Pretty girl.”

“Yeah. I mean, that’s not really what I’m--” Louis muttered, his eyes darting over the page. He shook his head slowly, rubbing a hand over his mouth.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Louis said quietly. “Never mind.”

Fear paled Louis’ face in a fleeting, flashing moment. It wasn’t long and Louis didn’t commit to showing Harry that side of himself. His eyes widened and his lips parted in a rebuttal that would never be heard. A secret had been pushed down before it even had a chance to breathe.

“What happened to us?” Louis muttered, scrolling back and forth through articles. “We hate each other.” It was taken as fact.

But they were sharing a bed. That had to mean something, right?

“I don’t know. We just, stopped being friends, I guess.”

“We lived together.” Louis said, lifting his eyebrows. “I’m your roommate-- fuck, I’m your legal guardian! How do we just _stop_ being friends?” He was angry, but Harry wasn’t sure it was entirely at him.

“I don’t know.” Harry repeated. “T-They must be blowing it out of proportion. Maybe you’ve just been spending a lot of time with her and they assumed that meant there was a problem.”

“That must be.” Louis said, handing him his phone back. “There’s no reason we should really hate each other, right?”

“I hope not.” Harry said quietly. “I quite like you. And hope to for… a long time.” For the rest of his life, hopefully. If Louis would let him.

“Me too.” Louis nodded, expression softening immediately. “I don’t even know the logic, but I can already tell we were being stupid.”

Harry hoped stupidity came from a squabble over dirty dishes or stealing socks. He couldn’t bear to think a single aching swell of warmth in his chest had a future of being extinguished.

In his hand, Harry’s phone began to ring again. It was a name in his contacts, but one he didn’t recognize. Harry bravely and blindly answered.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Tomlinson, your car is here.”

“O-Oh, okay. Thank you. We’ll be right down.” Harry hung up and slipped his phone in his pocket as he stood. He furrowed his eyebrows as he repeated the call’s greeting.

“What’s wrong?” Louis asked, already going for the front door.

“Nothing.” Harry said with a soft chuckle. “They just called me thinking it was you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Harry nodded. “ _Mr. Tomlinson_.”

* * *

Their car pulled up to the back of a large practice space. A few strangers with cameras-- _paparazzi_ , Harry uncomfortably calculated-- were standing by the gates, trying to catch the car going in. Harry and Louis were instructed to sit back and not face the windows. The driver was nice and charming, seemingly knowing them both well. Harry learned he had apparently had lunch with his mother a week prior to surprise her with news-- of what, Harry didn’t know, but lied and said she reacted swimmingly. Most noticeably though, the driver didn’t seem to give much of a care that both Harry and Louis were in the car together. He spoke to Louis as well, small talk that brought a warm smile to his face easily spotted in the rear view mirror. For good measure though, Harry kept facing away from Louis as long as he could. Louis didn’t try and loop Harry into any of their conversation, despite his instinct.

Three strangers met them at the back of the space, ready for them both to pull up. Louis was taken by one woman and walked through the studio door while Harry still tried to climb out of the car, the other two men waiting. Being unknowingly taller, Harry slammed his forehead against the doorframe. He stumbled out and held his head, squinting at the other men.

“What can I do for you?” Harry wanted to snap, but wasn’t entirely sure he had the authority to do so.

“Did anyone see you this morning?” The oldest of the two, gray and balding, placed his hand on Harry’s back and walked him toward the studio as well.

“N-No.” Harry said, still trying to apply pressure to the swelling bump on his forehead. “No one was around.”

“Good.”

“I didn’t know you were having Louis over last night. He was supposed to be seen leaving Eleanor's this morning.” The other man said, walking closely to Harry’s other side.

“We, uh, were just working on something.” Harry lied, trying to focus his eyes on one of the two faces to see how well his lie worked. They seemed unfazed.

“Clear it with one of us next time. We have a lot of paps standing by and can’t waste any more money on your surprise visits.”

“O-Okay.” Harry agreed. It made sense: Louis seemed to be doing quite a bit of charity work-- and maybe doing more with his girlfriend-- they had every interest to have someone catching a photo of him doing so. No one wanted one of two mortal enemies forgetting just what they were having a fall out over.

“And-- Oh, you just agreed with me.” The balding man started and then laughed, clapping Harry on the back. “Tired today?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” Harry muttered. “I’m having the worst dream.”

Harry was led from the back door down a long hallway to a large empty space filled only with a stage. It was built over the open cement floor: screens lit up, walkways long and extending outward toward Harry, and tall platforms of varying length. Harry’s knees involuntarily wobbled.

It occurred to him all at once that while yes, he did have to suddenly remember something he was sure he had been learning for months, it was also his _job_. He’d made it to the point where he somehow deserved to stand on a stage that large and know he belonged there.

But he also lost his best friend in the process. Part of Harry didn’t see how it was worth it.

“Harry! There he is! Mister twenty-one! How are you, man?” Liam waved at Harry as he passed through the space, steaming styrofoam cup in hand.

“Hey!” Harry waved, lifting his hand away from his forehead to wave. Liam seemed to be in a rush, Harry unable to catch a full look at him in his new age. At least Harry learned how old he himself was.

“Jesus, what happened to your head.” Zayn appeared off to Harry’s side, also carrying a steaming cup. He seemed caught off guard by Harry, stopping and taking several steps back toward him. His eyes started at Harry’s throbbing bump and drug over him. Harry worried he had dressed wrong, but Zayn seemed to just be assessing him for more damage.

“Walked right into the door of the car.” Harry said, covering it again quickly.

“First day with the new legs?” Zayn laughed, shaking his head.

“Yeah. Something like that.” Harry laughed and made sure to match the levity of Zayn’s-- but  they both ended up sounding hollow.

Harry returned Zayn’s favor and scanned over him quickly. His eyes were nearly gray. Dark circles fended off just barely but what seemed to be a nap, prayer, and cup of coffee. His clothes looked larger than Harry had ever seen on him before-- even in the flash photo Harry had found on his wall. There was a risk of sounding stupid, of possibly blowing the cover no one knew he had, but he had to say something.

“Hey, is everything alright?” Harry said, placing a hand out to catch the sleeve of Zayn’s shirt. He stopped and blinked at him, his eyebrows pulling together.

“Y-Yeah. Why?”

“You look tired, Zayn.” Harry addressed him by name as if to prove that Harry really _was_ himself. They didn’t know each other in this year, but Harry was still his friend. Maybe the current Harry was missing from his eyes, Zayn searching for him in their green pools. He had to give him a sign. “I want to make sure everything’s okay.”

“Yeah… Just a lot of uh, _stuff_ I’m working through right now, actually.” He confessed, angling his body towards Harry. He closed them off from the crew members passing behind them. “I’m talking with Liam a lot. He’s helping.” A weak smile broke the pale plaster weighing his face down.

“If you need another ear, I’m here.” Harry was sure he was the least qualified to help Zayn through his current problems, but the stark contrast between then and Harry’s last memory of him gave him the urgency to at least try.

“Thanks, mate.” Zayn placed his hand over Harry’s and gently squeezed it before pushing it from his arm. He started walking through the empty space again, turning to look at Harry again with a renewed smile.

With suspicion thankfully low, Harry continued walking through the space, tucking his hands into his back pockets. His rings caught on the fabric, nearly pulling them down. He’d have to start getting used to their added inconvenience before there were serious malfunctions. Harry had visions of waving a hand out to the crowd and accidentally tossing one into someone’s eye. He’d die of embarrassment; his seventeen year old self curling up firmly behind the blushing face of an apparent twenty-one year old.

The space was meant to be open, sound echoing and voices carrying, but it seemed too unbelievably vast the longer Harry took it all in. Loneliness seemed to be a byproduct of business. Everyone was rushing around, busy but laughing, and Harry stood clueless in the middle of the room. He stared down the setting of the next year of his life and wasn’t sure what poor excuse for himself he’d present to everyone that afternoon.

Harry tucked the fear away, keeping it shivering just under the edge of his skin, and kept walking. He still hadn’t seen Louis reemerge but could definitely hear him somewhere. His voice the most familiar calling in Harry’s new reality.

The open space funneled into tight hallways, winding through the rest of the studio and passing Harry by empty dressing rooms, catering, bathrooms, and tuning rooms. Harry found Louis and the woman that took him in a back room previously used by the band. Louis was sitting on the back of the single black couch, feet resting on the leather seat. His expression was impressively neutral, only breaking when Harry walked into the room.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Harry tried to pretend he wasn’t relieved to see him. “I’ll come back.”

“No. No. It’s alright. We’ve quite finished.” She told Harry. She lifted her cellphone up and tapped the back. “Have to start securing Friday’s arrangements.”

She exited almost as if she was nervous to be alone with them. It hurt Harry to think they hated each other to an extent that people preferred to give them their privacy to rip each other apart than be forced to be on the sidelines, responsible for the carnage.

“Sorry about that.” Louis said, folding his hands and resting them on his lap. “Said I wouldn’t leave ya, but, apparently I’ve done something wrong already.”

“Still one for mischief aren’t you?” Harry laughed, digging his hands back into his pockets. “Haven’t gotten over that.”

“Not for a second.” Louis patted the couch seat with his foot, encouraging Harry to join him. “What d’you do to your head?” He brushed a lock of Harry’s hair back to carefully observe the bump on Harry’s forehead.

“My brain doesn’t know how tall I am.” Harry folded his left leg up onto the seat. His ankle nudged Louis’ foot. “Hit my head right on the car door.”

“Oh, poor boy.” Louis was teasing Harry, but looked genuinely concerned as he ran his fingers over it gently. “You’re a proper mess, aren’t you?”

“Unfortunately.” Harry sighed, looking up at Louis. His eyebrows were furrowed and eyes carefully taking in the bruises forming along Harry’s hairline. The facial hair and subtle tobacco smell of his coat was unfamiliar, but his eyes always would be. “You’re stuck with me like this no matter the age.”

“I could only be so lucky.” Louis’ fingers traced across Harry’s forehead, down his cheek, under his jaw, and lifted his chin. “A life with you in it is the only one I know-- or care to know.”

Harry’s lips parted despite no words being formed. He leaned into Louis’ hand, chin lifting higher and pulling him closer to Louis. His blue eyes tracked their shrinking distance, unbothered, but curious.

There were no words on Harry’s lips, but instead the thrumming desire to have Louis’ tongue sliding over them. It was the strongest Harry had ever felt it. Not just the draw of a light peck, to have the warmth of someone’s smile hover over your own, but the urgent need to feel someone close and complementary with your jitters, both hands trembling over the same buttons.

Harry pushed it down with a gulp, pulling his head away from Louis’ hand. Past infatuations couldn’t be forced upon a brain grappling with the future.

Harry cleared his throat and motioned toward Louis, trying to cover for his change in proximity. “So, what happened to you?”

“Oh.” The change of subject soured the soft lines of Louis’ face and contorted them into deep wrinkles forming on his forehead. “I think my girlfriend is a bit annoyed.” Louis said, lips forming around the words with palpable reluctance. “I slept over at your place instead of hers.”

“I heard.” Harry wasn’t sure if he should’ve sounded smug. He sure felt as such.

“I hope I’m not a bad boyfriend.” Louis muttered, wringing his hands.

“I’m sure you aren’t. It seems like you’d really have to try to do that.” Harry said.

“I tried with Hannah.” Louis said quietly. “I tried to make myself love her. I can’t believe I’m failing again.”

A strange instinct in Harry fluttered under his fingertips as Louis reached to hold the bridge of his nose. The loneliness had clutched Harry’s hand, his fingers feeling cold and alone. They seeked warmth in the palm of Louis’ hand.

Neither said anything as Harry’s fingers slid over his hand, Louis’ hand fitting tightly in his light grasp. It was the most Harry could say at the moment. They were unfamiliar with each other at this age, but their bodies seemed to know each other better.

“I should call her.” Louis said suddenly, lowering his one hand from his face to reach into his pocket. The other tightened around Harry’s hand. “I’ll call her.”

Louis searched for her contact, muttering her name under his breath quickly. Harry couldn’t imagine waking up completely unaware he had a relationship with someone else. Louis didn’t even seem to know her name confidently.  He tapped a contact and held the phone up to his ear, the volume turned up enough that Harry could hear the ringing despite not being on speakerphone.

It rang longer than Harry thought humane.

“ _Hello?”_

“Eleanor?” Every syllable came out of Louis’ mouth wrong, like he was trying to speak across language barriers.

“ _\-- you doing?”_ The clarity was poor from Harry’s seat, but he strained his ears and watched Louis’ face to fill in the gaps.

“I just wanted to call you-- I, uh, feel like we haven’t spoken in a while.” Louis looked at Harry with a tight and confused expression. He shrugged, mimicking a scream as he waited for a response.

“ _What_?” At first, the word was followed by what Harry thought to be static, but by the crumpling look on Louis’ face, it was laughter.

“I wanted to apologize. For not being over last night.”

“-- _think I care?”_

“You’re my girlfriend. Of course I care.” Louis bit his lip, trying to stop a subtle quiver of his bottom lip.

“-- _drunk right now?_ ”

“No. W-What does that mean?”

“ _I’m hanging up-- me alone_.”

Louis lowered his phone to his lap, his entire face dropping and eyes getting glassy. It sounded like Louis had called a stranger. Even though it was entirely true, Louis had tried to put his heart in the right place. He successfully shattered it with fewer than forty words.

“Not again.” Louis wasn’t speaking to Harry, but he didn’t seem to mind that he heard. “Not fucking again. You stupid fucking idiot.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s _not_.” Louis snapped, looking at Harry with a loose tear on his cheek. He didn’t pull his hand away. “I can’t believe I’m doing this again.”

“Doing what?”

“Nothing.” Louis shook his head and wiped his cheek. He looked back at Harry with a smile that seemed misplaced among his distress, but didn’t look unfamiliar on him. His hand shifted in Harry’s hand, their fingers slotting together with startling ease. Their hands never used to fit like that before.

There was an interruption forming between them but it manifested not as a hesitant questioning of the energy charging between them, but as Niall busting in the door to find them.

Their hands split apart with a slow drag of Harry’s fingers over Louis’ palm. Louis stood from his seat and stepped off the sofa quickly as Niall seemed momentarily distracted by someone in the hallway. They were a full room apart by the time Niall finally looked.

“Yeah, yeah. I think they’re here-- Hey! We’re going to start gettin’ going.” Niall smiled at them both. Harry noted the difference in his teeth immediately. He really was the cute one, wasn’t he? “What were you two doing?”

“Nothing.” Harry said with an attempted scoff, trying to play off the fact they both looked like they were pretending to know how to be people. Which was only half true.

“Nothing?” Niall repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Alright. Button up and let’s go.”

The daze on Louis’ face was still noticeable as they followed Niall out into the hall and back to the stage. Harry tried not to seem like he was particularly concerned, but Niall’s eyes kept darting over to him as they eventually stood three across in the hall.

“You alright, Tommo?” Niall looked at Harry quickly. Their awkwardness was obvious but at least normal to others. Parting the minute doors opened, halting their spitting insults for the benefits of others ears, was acceptable it seemed. Harry really started to hate himself as the concern in Niall’s eyes consumed him.

“Yeah.” Louis nodded. “Just called my girlfriend.”

Harry could tell there was a hopefulness in Louis’ confession, a prayer that someone would tell him what was happening before he put his foot further down his throat. Niall was the most honest man they knew, one they’d both confided in before, and knew he’d reflect the truth without trying to flatter Louis. Louis looked at him, begging for the truth, but instead was met with a startling, honking laugh.

“Very funny.” Niall said, clapping Louis on the back. “Don’t let Lisa wind you up about last night. You were allowed one night at home. You deserve it, alright? Push on.”

“She really hates me.” Louis said. Harry struggled to keep his eyes looking dead ahead. Enemies didn’t pity one another. They didn’t hold hands. They didn’t _care_ about each other. Then they wouldn’t really be enemies, now would they?

“Lisa? No. C’mon don’t do that to yourself. You can’t keep thinking of this as your own fault. Eleanor will pass too, Louis. You’ll get yourself back. You _will_.” Niall spoke with far more intensity than before, his laugh dissolving into a low and serious tone. “Let’s focus on kicking off the tour and then try talking to management again. Hey, maybe me, Liam, and Zayn can too.” Harry noticed he was conveniently forgotten from the list. “We’ll back you up.”

“Thanks.” Louis said, despite not following a single word Niall said. The sentiment seemed sweet, but the situation was still as cloudy as ever.

“Of course.” Niall placed a hand on Louis’ head, pulling it in to kiss his temple. He passed a smile to Harry as he stepped away, leaving them alone and approaching the stage together.

“Get myself back.” Louis repeated, looking at Harry. He continued shuffling forward, running his hands over his face. “Really hope we switch back soon. Not sure how much longer I can take this.”

As he stepped up on stage, Harry wondered how long Louis had been going through _whatever_ it was before they entered their new ages. It seemed like the past four years of turmoil had built up in Louis’ heart, able to weigh him down without knowing a single day of it. There was a similar weigh sitting in Harry’s chest, but he was sure it came with the age. It was loss, no doubt, and it seemed to twist harder every time he looked at Louis. But Harry was sure he was just mourning the years he never got to spend with Louis after this apparent time switch.

* * *

Practice was a disaster-- internally at least. Externally, Harry was able to pass off most of the lyrics and motions by trying to predict melody and continuing rhyme schemes-- as well as letting his mind unfocus, knowing (hoping rather) muscle and word memory would take over. Internally, every cell in Harry’s body felt like they were on fire. They were itching and seizing as he tried to keep up with time that was already ahead of him. The four years really started to show the longer they rehearsed.

By the second rundown, Harry couldn’t take it. He collapsed at the end of the stage, the team looking at him with narrowing curiosity. His knees gave way and Harry plopped down harshly, placing his microphone down with an echoing thud as he tried to find his balance again. The stage tilted, Harry feeling like he was going to tip over and slide to the cement floor. Every breath was shallow, his lungs reluctant to take the time to fully expand. The seconds were rushed and he didn’t have the time to think or move or even begin to process his name being called from the other end of the stage.

Liam had appeared first, his words muffled and lips moving far too fast. He grabbed Harry’s hand almost immediately, the touch heavy and making Harry unable to lift his arm. He blinked at Liam, feeling separate from reality entirely.

Zayn was next, grabbing his ankles and pushing them forward to bend Harry’s legs. Confusion was unable to show on Harry’s face, energy refusing to be redirected to anything other than his belabored breathing.

Louis stood behind Liam, eyes wide and mouth open. In the warping twist of Harry’s vision, Louis looked like he had when Harry went to sleep the night before. His face was young, eyes glinting and telling secrets that only Harry could read. It was the Louis he knew, the one he _needed_ to be able to come out the other end-- the one that wasn’t allowed to help Harry anymore.

Eventually, Zayn guided Harry’s head down to rest on his lifted knees. His head was steadied against his own body, the spinning at least constant and predictable. As he folded over, the compression against his chest gave his lungs the excuse to not expand fully. His shallower but slower breaths felt like enough and he began to hear clearly again. The world evened and his balance returned.

They called a break but Harry stayed on the stage. A team member handed Liam water and some food, and he sat down beside Harry. Zayn walked off, taking Louis under his arm. Niall sat on Harry’s other side, asking for someone to grab his sweatshirt from the back room.

“What the hell happened?” Liam asked, opening the water for Harry. “I haven’t seen you do that in years.”

“Is everything okay?” Niall asked, leaning over to meet the person handing him his sweatshirt. He unzipped it and laid it over Harry’s shoulders. “You’ve seemed off since I found you and Louis in the other room.”

Harry gulped the water down slowly, trying to buy himself time as well as assuring himself that he wouldn’t spit any of it up.

“You just told your mom about the house, right?” Liam said, fixing one of the sweatshirt drawstrings. “Is it something going on with her?”

“No. No.” Harry denied blindly. “Just the usual shit.” Liam lifted his eyebrows, opening the conversation. “Ya know, with Louis and everything.”

“Louis?” Niall repeated. His eyes left Harry’s face to focus instead on Liam. Harry was thankful for the privacy.

“Yeah, fighting again. Was over last night and we had another screaming match.” He shrugged it off, the way the magazines told him he did.

“ _Another_?” Liam said.

“Yeah, you know how it is.” Harry waved the worry away and downed the rest of his water bottle. When he lowered his head, both Niall and Liam were staring at him with furrowed eyebrows. “What?”

“Are you sure everything’s okay?”

“Yes. Positive.” Harry laughed. For once, he was sure it was his friends that were clueless. “We do this all the time. Stop making it such a big deal.”

“O-Okay.” Liam surrendered with a quiet nod. He handed Harry a granola bar as an olive branch, encouraging the conversation to end with Harry’s loud chewing.

Across the room, Harry could see Zayn talking to Louis closely. Louis was emitting the same kind of nonchalance Harry was trying to keep; they were in tune without a single word. They just had to _not_ mess with anything in the future so their pasts could remain the same.

“Do you want me to go talk to him?” Niall said making a motion to stand. He’d caught Harry’s staring.

“No. That’s not-- no.” Harry tugged him back down. “He doesn’t know what’s happening anyway.” It wasn’t an insult; it was a plea to go easy on him. Harry couldn’t add to the weight growing in Louis’ heart. Maybe distance was the best thing for them both.

“Are you sure?”

“Niall. He said no.” Liam said shortly. “Don’t meddle. It’s probably Lisa.”

“Is that it?” Niall still referred back to Harry. “I laughed at Louis earlier. I really shouldn’t have… Is he okay?”

Harry shrugged, snapping the granola bar in half. “How should I know?” He crunched the bar indelicately, hoping the sound would shatter the concern being filtered through him. Instead, it only directed the concern _toward_ him.

“Are you feeling okay?” Niall asked. “How hard did you hit your head?”

“Should I get Theo over here? Check it out?” Liam reached up to touch Harry’s forehead, but paused and let his fingers hover over his bruise. “It looks painful.”

“It’s fine-- I’m fine.” Harry said, trying to force himself back into his skin. It was harder to feel better and grounded when the body he was sitting in was a stranger up until twelve hours previous. Nothing felt one hundred percent right. Especially with Louis standing on the other side of the room, eyes purposefully directed away from Harry. “Just not feeling myself today.”

It was sickening to realize that out of the two people in front of him, Harry knew himself the least. In a matter of days, Harry would be in front of thousands of people who still knew him better. Even the one person Harry trusted to know everything about him was looking to be clueless.

The weight in his chest began to sink; the loneliness felt in the room began to grow into the loneliness of Harry’s entire life. Whatever nightmare he was having was starting to feel like a punishment.

Harry finished his granola bar after another fifteen minutes. It took another thirty for anyone to allow Harry to stand again. He did so with every set of hands grabbing his arms and slowly pulling him up. Louis gripped him the tightest, fingernails digging into the skin near his elbow. Eventually the same grip found its way to his waist, bracing him in his first moments of rebalance.

“I’m okay.” Harry said, waving everyone off his arms. “I just got a little overwhelmed. Not paralyzed.”

“What else can we do?” Zayn asked. Louis was still beside him, the conversation unheard, but wearing haggardly on Louis face. He looked afraid to touch Harry, the desperation in his grip telling Harry he was guilty for even doing so. His hands nervously tapped his thighs, staying away from the temptation to take Harry’s hand again. Harry knew he would’ve like it as well.

“Let’s just get back to it, yeah?” Harry said, leaning down and picking up his microphone.

“Okay. Sure.” Niall nodded and motioned for the rest of the team and band to come back to the stage and immediate audience area. “If you need a break, just give me a yell-- or Louis too.”

“I will.” Harry nodded to Niall, beginning to walk with him back upstage and leaving the other three boys behind. “I think I’m just going to come to you though.” It was a fail-safe as well as reassurance of Niall’s perception of him.

Niall eyed Harry with the same unnerving concern, arm going around his shoulders and adjusting the sweatshirt again. “Yeah. That’s okay, mate. I’m here. You two will work it out soon.”

Harry almost had the chance to ask who Niall was referring to, but the music started up again and left the only person Harry had time to question to be himself.

* * *

Both Harry and Louis had survived the rest of rehearsal with minimal glaring mistakes that made the other three turn and stare at them. Harry was met with building pity and concern while Louis seemed to be met with shock, unsure glances traded before going back to their own parts.

The stage was long, each boy given more than enough space for themselves and their pocket of the invisible crowd. Even with the vastness open to him, Harry found himself somehow always ending up next to Louis. He’d sidestep a corner and run right into him, their shoulders bumping and Louis stepping back with a quick apology whispered out of range from his mic, while Harry gripped his forearm to make sure he wasn’t in danger of falling off the stage.

The last time, Louis nearly did. His one foot landed firmly over the edge of the stage as Harry turned and shouldered him by accident. Louis’ hand grabbed Harry’s wrist and his words were quickly whispered as he began falling. The words found Harry’s ear clearly despite the distance, Harry’s hands already on the way to grab him before knowing it.

Louis thanked Harry with a squeeze to his shoulder, their exchanged smile feeling filthy in the exposed space. Louis hurried away, picking up the part of the song he hadn’t known waking up that morning. Harry had tried to turn away as well, but came to face Liam, who had both his eyebrows up and seemed greatly concerned by the interaction. Harry tried to looked disgruntled, tried to look like having even the shortest brush with Louis wasn’t a comfort worth risking his cover for. He was still rattled in his skin, unsure of how he was going to keep up lying and performing, in more ways than one. Louis’ quick smile was the only assurance that everything wasn’t crumbling.

By seven, everyone was dead on their feet and was on their way out. Harry tried to look busy removing all of his sound gear to try and loiter, hoping Louis was doing the same as he parted ways from the other three boys.

“How about I buy the first pint when we land, yeah? How’s that?” Louis said, shaking his head and walking backwards. Harry kept to fiddling with his equipment, knowing in a few steps it would just be the two of them in earshot. “I’ll see you Friday, lads.”

Louis walked up to the table with quick, short steps. Harry no longer had anything to do at the table, but he stood anyway. Being near Louis was a relief in continual, spinning panic. He felt the urge to touch him. Just a brush of the knuckles, a bump of the shoulder, a kiss to the cheek--

“I’m sorry.” Louis said quietly, pulling his inner-ear wire out from the back of his shirt.

“For what?” Harry snapped back to attention. He stepped closer timidly. Louis let him.

“I’m not really sure, but I think this me maybe hasn’t been kind to you.” Louis coiled the wire around his hand and placed it in his case. “Zayn asked if you were okay-- what had happened recently. If they’re asking _me_ before they’re asking you, they must really know something I don’t.”

“I know we don’t know anything,” Harry started. “But I know that you’re the only person I feel I can trust. And I don’t think that’s just from before.”

Louis reached out and grabbed Harry’s chin. He looked annoyed at having to reach up to do so, but still looked at him with an endearing smile. Louis’ eyes were tired, his entire face gaunt in the dimness of their corner and with exhaustion wearing him thin. Harry wished Louis would sleep in his bed again, as if only to make sure he got some sleep.

“I trust you too. Only you.” Louis said. Louis’ fingers held Harry’s chin tightly, easily able to pull him down to his level. To his lips.

Harry trusted Louis to know where the line was, but Harry didn’t trust himself.

“We should go. Before someone sees.” Harry suggested. “Everyone has been acting weird all day. I don’t know if we’re doing this right.”

“It’s kind of a relief.” Louis laughed, dropping his hand. “Glad it’s not easy for me to be apart from you.” Being apart wasn’t what was supposed to be difficult though; it was the manufactured hatred.

They stood in front of each other and Harry could feel his naive instincts rise under his fingertips. He flinched and tried to grab Louis’ hand but stuffed his hand into his pocket before he embarrassed himself.

His brain hadn’t caught up to his current age, it seemed. It didn’t seem to understand that his seventeen year old crush had died out years ago. It had changed, Harry could feel that much, but he was positive it hadn’t turned into the heated, swelling desire that strangely flared in his chest when Louis looked at him too long. Like now.

“I should probably get going.” Harry said, nearly tripping as he stepped back. “My ride is coming soon.”

“I-- wait, should I come with you?”

“I think they want you to go home. Be with your girlfriend. She probably misses you a lot.” Harry said.

He turned and walked back out to the open space. It had only been a moment, a split second, but the four years seemed to settle between them finally. The loss was a phantom pain, but it did everything but haunt. It clung to Harry as he tried to rush back outside to the pitch black night and open air. Four years in a flash. He missed Louis too.

But Harry wasn’t sure if he had anything to mourn.

* * *

Driving home was longer than his drive to the space. The driver was quiet, as was Harry. He stared out the window and tried to recognize any of the passing streets or buildings. It was all foreign and Harry didn’t have any of the means to learn. He leaned his head against the glass and waited to open his eyes when the car came to a stop.

Back inside, Harry kicked off his shoes. He removed all of his clattering accessories and placed them on the kitchen counter. He could still feel Louis hovering by the stove and hear his voice in the other room. They weren’t memories from that morning, but they felt real. His imagination must’ve gotten stronger as he got older.

Harry opened his mouth to speak, as if to ask something of the hovering memory beside him. His mouth shut quickly, his jaw clamping shut. As much as living alone felt strange to Harry, the room seemed to radiate loneliness. There were cold spots where it seemed to beg for another person, disappointed to only have Harry. He knew the feeling.

To try and imitate Louis, Harry grabbed his kettle from that morning and slowly jostled it to listen for water. Louis had put just enough in for their two cups. Louis had Harry as an ingrained form of habit. An instinct. A knee-jerk answer. A knowledge that was outrunning time itself. Louis left an imprint on the room that left every inch of the house feeling empty.

As an instinct of his own, and against better judgement, Harry reached into his pocket for his phone. Louis was the last person he had called, without any surprise of course. It was easy to bypass all rational thinking when he was on speed dial.

Louis answered after the first ring.

“Thank god it’s you.” He sighed, laughing softly. “Hi, Harry.”

“Are you okay?” Harry said, holding his phone to his ear with his shoulder as he poured water into his kettle. “Get home alright?”

“Yeah.” Louis said. “Got dropped off at what is supposed to be my flat, but… it’s pretty fucking bare.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’m apparently quite the minimalist.”

“Do… Do you want to come back over?” Harry asked, wincing at his own idiocracy. The ticking of his gas stove seemed to teasingly count the seconds it took Louis to respond.

“I don’t know. I don’t know where you live and I don’t think anyone would understand me going over to see you.” Louis sighed. “As much as I would love a roommate right now.”

“Yeah, living alone sucks.” Harry admitted. “I almost found myself talking to no one.”

“I’ve done that at least four times already.” Louis laughed. “I’m so used to having you glued to my side.” He paused, sighing. Harry found it hard to believe he had left the same imprint wherever Louis was. He wasn’t that special. Louis was the important one, the one that made it all better. Harry was just the worrier. “It was weird having to not talk to you today. I mean, after you fell I just… I didn’t know what to do. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. We can't start raising any suspicion. In case we really have lost our minds and this is the rest of our lives--”

“I sure fucking hope not.” Louis said firmly. “I don’t want to live the rest of my life having to stop myself from being your friend. Maybe we can convince everyone we aren’t fucking knobs. Actual _best friends_.”

“First we need to figure out why we hate each other in the first place.” Harry tried to joke, but part of him was serious. He was still curious what there was to be seen about Louis that wasn’t to love.

“Probably stole my food.”

“You love sharing with me.” Harry retorted with a laugh. “Also, most of the time I’ve _made_ the food you’re eating, so you can’t really complain.”

“I don’t know… Maybe this older me becomes possessive about his food.” Louis teased. “No Styles allowed.”

“Sounds dreadful.” Harry shook his head. “Hope you have better sharing policies with Eleanor.” The silence on the other line was sharp and cold. Harry had struck a nerve, plunging his hand deep into a scar he hadn’t even noticed was still healing. “Louis?”

“I don’t think she’s my girlfriend.” Louis said quietly. Harry quickly removed his whistling kettle from the stove and asked him to repeat himself. “I mean, she is but… she can’t be.”

“What does that mean?” Harry wished Louis was with him; he spoke more with his face than with words when he was considerably upset. “Louis, come on, you have to talk to me.”

“I think I messed up, Harry.” Louis admitted. “I think… I think I never opened my mouth when I should’ve and I fucked myself. I’m _lying_ to her, Harry.”

“What are you saying?” Harry gripped the phone tightly, hoping to squeeze clarity from the static. “Louis?”

His pause was long, every breath sounding like the start of a confession before a shaky exhale told Harry otherwise. Finally, Louis spoke, rushed but clear. “Harry, you know I’m gay, right?”

The words had never come from Louis explicitly, but Harry wasn’t startled by the fact. Their mutual crushes were a symptoms of being two hopelessly romantic boys capable of finding love in one another.

“I know.” Harry said. “I know, Louis.”

“I’m lying to her.” He repeated. “And my punishment is being stuck in this reminder of my inability to love--”

“It's not an inability. Your heart is capable of so much love, has the potential to love everyone,” Harry withheld the urge to name himself as someone who felt bursts of affection and love from Louis’ blooming heart. “but it can only hold so much before it needs some back... she just can't give you that. And that's okay too.” Harry tried not to sound like he was accusing anyone.

“But what am I doing? Why haven’t I told her yet?” Louis sighed, his voice growing distant on the other end. “God, what happened that made me so _scared_.”

Fear wasn’t supposed to be the discovery Louis made about himself-- that couldn’t have been the lesson he was supposed to pull from the punishment. Knowing a future held no promising good days, no days in bed with a roommate or best friend under burning rays of sun and scorching blushes of embarrassment, wasn’t one Harry was sure he wanted to continue waking up in or toward.

“It’s going to be okay, Lou.” Harry promised. “Confidence isn’t always easy, you know? Maybe you’re just in a weak spot right now.”

Louis was quiet. “I was hoping I’d have everything behind me. I was planning on saying it tomorrow-- _yesterday’s_ tomorrow. But now, I guess I lost my chance.”

Harry had to ignore the borderline confession. The conversation was being thawed before they were ready. “I’m sorry.”

“Eh, you have just as little control over it as I do.” Louis sighed quietly. “Dreams sure are weird, huh.”

Thinking they could wake up the next day from any and all of their current reality was a cruel sliver of hope. Harry didn’t have the heart to tell Louis or himself that they weren’t dreaming. There was no way; it was too thorough to be a nightmare and too horrific to be a dream.

And that’s exactly what reality is, isn’t it?

“I think I need to get some sleep.” Harry said after a few minutes of quiet agreement. “I’m really exhausted from today.”

“Of course. Rest up and I’ll see you on Friday I guess.”

“Wait. Friday? I won’t see you the meantime?”

“Why would you?” Louis said solemnly. “We hate each other.”

“Oh. Right.” Harry nodded. He let Louis be the first to hang up and convince him.

It was the first time Harry considered it to be true, that it would need to be true if they were going to survive. They couldn’t ignore their past thought processes. Couldn’t ignore the ones that surrounded the life events neither of understood and suddenly twist their world to their own selfish whim. They had a band, tour, and relationships to maintain. They weren’t teenagers anymore. They were adults with the responsibility of giving themselves up to a greater good.

Harry just wasn’t sure why he himself wasn’t part of what deserved to be good.

* * *

Louis called Harry on the afternoon of the second day.

The first had passed in a naive excitement over independence. Living alone meant listening to music _too_ loud and walking between rooms in just his underwear as he still tried to decide how to dress himself. It was Harry trying to learn how to correctly walk in his body, avoiding door frames and table edges.

On Wednesday, Harry was sitting on the floor, listening to the music he and the boys had apparently written in the years he’d missed. He barely recognized his own voice, either coming from the speakers or his own mouth. He was sitting with the CD booklet open in his lap, repeating the lyrics over the song when his phone began to rattle on the coffee table.

Harry pushed himself onto all fours and quickly inched up on the floor to grab it. He crossed his legs and tucked his hair behind his ear before answering, knowing the only person with the authority to call.

“Hey, Lou.”

“Hi, Haz. How are you? Today treating you alright?” Louis asked, his voice gentle even through the crackle of the call reception.

“It’s been an okay day. Just trying to study a lot.” Harry confessed. “How are you? H-Have you spoken to Eleanor yet?”

“Yeah, got a bite an hour ago.” He said blankly. There wasn’t much else to it.

“Oh no. What happened?”

“Nothing much, we barely got any food _or_ conversation in before people were taking our picture.” Louis said. Harry was thankful Louis’ tone of voice matched his contorted expression.

“Like, paparazzi?”

“Yeah. A whole lot of ‘em. I felt like I wasn’t even wearing my own skin correctly.” Louis admitted with a sigh.

“Sorry that happened.” Harry ran his hand over his arm slowly, listening to Louis bounce between forming words and heavy exhales. His fingers seemed to have already developed the habit of finding the soft skin that composed each of his tattoo ship’s sails. The comfort of Louis’ voice did nothing to deter the comfort, if anything amplifying it.

“They asked me about you.” Louis said finally.

“Me?”

“Someone grabbed my shoulder and stopped me, wanting to know about you. Why we were fighting-- how we’d survive tour being so close together.” Louis repeated the questions in a serious tone, although breaking it at the end with a laugh. “It made me realize how excited I was to go on tour with you and actually _be_ so close together.”

“Roommates on the road, I guess, right?” Harry smiled. His fingers pushed into his skin, like a gentle grip of Louis’ voice pulling him in.

“Do you remember those first few months when we moved in?” Louis asked, voice slow but refraining from being coy.

“I do, yeah.”

“Remember that time we… we were on the couch, sitting under your mum’s old knitted blanket? We made each other tea to try and fight off the cold. I was shivering before you even sat down... and you put your arm around me to try and keep me warm.”

Also under that same blanket, and while under his arm, Louis admitted to Harry that he liked being close to him. Louis turned to look at Harry, successfully stopping his heart mid-beat, and confessed that being held by him was the most comfortable he’d ever felt. Harry responded by stuttering through the words his bestilled heart had memorized in between flutters.

“I was going to kiss you then.” Harry said. It wasn’t a memory he expected Louis to have, but it was an important detail.

“I was hoping you would.” Louis spoke with the same winded confidence he had sitting under Harry’s arm. His hand had rested on Harry’s chest then, able to feel his pounding heartbeat and realize just how much risk they were committing to. This time, all he had were Harry’s stagnant pauses showing him just how much of a chance they really had.

“I wish you’d said this earlier.” Harry admitted. “Maybe things would be different now.”

“Maybe that’s why they are.”

Suddenly, independence felt like abandonment. Silence had prevailed for too long and formed the vastness of each room of Harry’s house. His future taunted Harry with long bouts of attempted healing and dark nights alone. Endless strings of days exactly like the one previous: going about his day, but only pushing forward toward the unknown urgency of a reunion. But without the promise of a reunion and only the teases of a mere joining of presences, what was there to seek in the day to day?

Harry hung up without another word and tossed the phone to the floor. It clattered against the crystal CD cases, settling on the wood floor with a final thud. The future couldn’t be trusted anymore, Harry having made all the wrong decisions the minute he wasn’t looking.

He clambered to his feet and hurried to his bedroom, storming to the bathroom and slamming the door. The mirror wobbled against the wall but still held the stranger for Harry to ogle, glassy eyed and lost. He searched his reflection as if it was another person, trying to find assurance in their eyes and gentle features-- the way he would Louis-- but was met only with the same babbling confusion pouring from him.

“I want to go home!” Harry cried, covering his face and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. He slammed his back against the door, banging his head again. A new bump would grow on the opposite side of his head to match the one on his forehead. “Please, God, let me go back.”

Harry tried to grasp his hands in prayer, but he was unable to reconcile the unfamiliarity with his own large hands. He had put his rings back on that morning in an attempt to get used to them, but only found them alienating the simple use of his fingers from the rest of him. Even on the back of his hand, strangeness came in the form of a thin black cross resting beside his thumb.

How could he have gotten such a tattoo when he was sitting in unchangeable circumstances, scared and hopeless? How could he have gotten any of the tattoos on his body? What moment of Harry’s derailing and withering reality was worth pressing onto his skin for the rest of his life?

The ending had been spoiled. There was no way he felt that strongly about anything. Or anyone.

His buried habit resurfaced in a tear, his fingers digging into his bicep and scratching up the smooth skin over his ship. The skin raised in four even tracks, small bits peeling up and revealing the raw skin underneath.

Harry fell in a prayerless kneel in front of the door. His hands trembled again, but there was no warmth to press his palm into. Harry feared that his urges to hold Louis didn’t come from his own affections, but from selfish loneliness latching onto the only soul he recognized among familiar faces. His fingers coiled and grasped at his hair, trying to remember what it felt like to have delicate hands bounce his short curls just above his ears.

Every change he had made in the future seemed to be one made to forget Louis.

Reunion was unlikely but collision seemed imminent. Harry had to bridge the gap between the past four years or he’d unlikely be able to handle seeing Louis every day.

How had he been doing it for the past four years? There seemed to be no obvious courses for numbing or even coping. Only clean, connectionless emptiness filling each room to the ceiling.

Harry lived alone, but he didn’t want to love that way too.

* * *

On the morning of the last day of solitude, Harry tried to distract himself with breakfast: scrambling eggs, burning toast, whatever got his mind off the new tabloids he knew were waiting for him. Ever since he’d gotten one sent to him by a friend he didn’t know, Harry was slowly gaining awareness of how easy it was to catch up on his own life. Or worse yet, catch up on Louis’.

After three tries at flipping an omelette, a burnt half loaf of bread, and a near broken plate, Harry sat down on the couch with his phone and a cup of tea. He hovered over the search, Louis’ name embarrassingly resting under his fingertips. Part of Harry wanted to weep at the thought of seeing Louis and his girlfriend, of seeing him with someone he wasn’t in love with and wasn’t capable of _ever_ falling in love with. He typed in his name anyway, his fingers and keyboard already prepared for the search.

The headline was innocuous enough: _Louis Tomlinson seen out to lunch with girlfriend before starting band’s nine month world tour_. The photos looked far different than the ones he had scrolled through that first day. Louis looked uncomfortable, his eyes wide and searching over the heads of every camera, begging for an exit.

The distress felt palpable on Harry’s skin. His flesh crawled, digging under his fingernails and curling and coiling up to his arms. A shiver started at the healing raw skin and shot back down his body. The urge to cry rose again in him, like the bile in his throat.

Under a particularly jarring photo of Louis with a hand on his arm and camera caught in his face, a short caption supplied the context and quote.

_When asked about the impending clashing of him and fellow bandmate, Harry Styles, from shared space on tour, he came at reporters with “Sharing isn’t much of the problem. It’s knowing where to stop.” Apparently the long haired rockstar hasn’t learned the rules of the tour bus just yet._

A shared blanket had proven disastrous and a bed had caused the resurrection of buried feelings. Their shared feelings were just the admission they were carrying around the corpse of found love, heavy and impossible in their hearts.

The Louis published in the article was the one Harry had shared the most with, but the one no one had seen before. His honesty was an anomaly of having Louis lovesick and from a different age. In reality, without their past hugging their heels and dragging them back, those words would’ve never been spoken. Harry wasn’t supposed to know. That conversation, warm and static under the blanket, was meant to die four years ago. Decomposition wasn’t supposed to last this long.

The tea had turned cold by the time Harry lifted it to his lips. He lowered his phone and stared ahead at the fireplace and mantle, mug blocking an arc of his vision. He hadn’t noticed, or bothered to notice, just how many picture frames had been placed around the house. He’d passed the ones on the walls repeatedly even in his short time there, but didn’t want to take much notice to them.

He held his sip of cold tea in his mouth for a moment, deciding if he wanted to inspect the captured and unknown memories. He swallowed the water, figuring he’d take some pride down with it, and stood up.

No two photos had the same frame. Some were thick but with a small glass opening, others thin, most were black or white, but others were brightly colored strips of plastic. Most of the photos were of the same size though, film developed on sturdy and glossy paper.

Harry slid his hand under the standing flap of a frame and brought it closer to his field of vision. The frame was heavy and yellow. The photo inside, pleasantly enough, had streaks of yellow in it as well. At first, it looked like paint poured on the person in the photo-- sitting in a dining chair somewhere, hair curly and wrapped up in a bandana, and a stupid grin splitting their face-- until he noticed the squashed cake in front of him. The face was hidden in icing, but Harry recognized the ship tattoo poking out from under the boy’s sleeve.

Harry had been shoved unceremoniously into the cake in front of him, but seemed to be mid-laugh as the photo was snapped. The tip of his ring finger was pulling away from his mouth, licking it clean. There were blurred bodies on the edges, presumably the instigators and ones laughing the loudest. Harry wished he could have seen the moments following the flash. He wanted to see who his enamored eyes were looking to, and if they had any right to look there in the first place.

The photo beside it was in a lean flimsy blue frame, corners nicked and dented. The five of them-- Louis, Liam, Zayn, Niall, and Harry-- didn’t look much younger than they were at the moment, but the frame seemed to have gone through a lot of travel. There were a series of three photos, all taken at an unknown set of steps. They were all dressed impeccably well, most in ties with well pressed collared shirts. Zayn and Niall bookended the line again, Liam sitting beside Zayn and Harry on Niall’s right with Louis in the middle. It looked like late afternoon, the sun timidly lighting them up but holding back on the golden ribbons of light.

The first photo was simple. The five of them sat on the steps with bright smiles on their faces. All of them looking genuine: cheeks lifted and squinting their eyes. From his hair, Harry judged the photo was taken between the cake photo and Harry’s current age. His hair was just beginning to hang by his ears, a black hat resting over most of it. Louis was completely shaved, although his face had still matured beyond what Harry knew. His cheeks were cut more sharply and his hair was styled up and back. He looked radiant, brighter than the fading sun lighting them. Harry wished he could remember what put such a smile on Louis’ face.

The second photo was a slight change from the first. Niall had thrown his one leg over the knees of Harry and Louis, his hand grabbing at Harry’s lapel and pulling himself closer and finally planting a kiss on his cheek. Harry had his eyes closed, smiling at the camera still, and holding up a peace sign. Zayn and Liam had wrapped their arms around each other, laughing with open mouths and looking one good giggle from tipping over. In the middle, Louis was decidedly out of a pair for the photo but instead attached himself to Harry and Niall.

His arm reached over his body to rest over Harry’s legs, hand resting lightly over his thigh. His other hand reached for Harry’s hat, lifting it and in the process of placing it on his head. His grin was mischievous, looking at the camera and acknowledging the history of eyes destined to watch him with one simple flash. He was so close to Harry, his chest practically rested against Harry’s shoulder. Still didn’t know when to stop sharing.

In the last photo, they had derailed even further from their poised poses. Louis was wearing the hat completely, grinning with childish glee toward the camera with his eyes closed and chin lifted slightly. Harry was no longer part of the hilarious photo was but instead staring at Louis, mouth open in an unheard, teasing scold. Harry’s hand had landed on Louis’ on his leg while the other pointed at him, captured mid-wag. In the moment, Louis couldn’t see but Harry was looking at him with the helplessness of a heart destined to burst. He looked so full of love, full of potential, Harry wasn’t sure where it had come from.

In fact, in all the photos on the mantle and along the walls, Harry looked genuinely elated. His eyes were crinkled and his nose was scrunched up, or his mouth was open and exposing his teeth in a static laugh. His hands were always resting on the shoulder or back of someone else, constantly connecting him to the friends he had around him. Harry was rooted, pleased, and healthy looking. It didn’t make sense to Harry then to be that cheerful in a world where love was pushed down, flattening under the soles of his decidedly _strangely_ colorful shoes.

There had to be something or someone he was missing. Possibly a pocket of his life he hadn’t engaged with in the past few days. He hadn’t spoken to anyone beyond rehearsal. Maybe the Harry in the photos had evaded the sickly weight of loneliness, keeping is heart and smile light for every photo. The Harry moving along the picture frames was pushing himself away from a reality he couldn’t escape. He knew he should call someone, anyone that was listed in his phone, but the only person he could think to call was Louis.

Each photo deceived him with the idea. They were touching and smiling in nearly every photo, but Harry couldn’t mistake the present truth; it had all soured. Somewhere between sharing blankets and flats, sharing the truth became one blow they couldn’t survive.

But they were happy in those photos, it seemed. A smile could be faked, but honesty was far less hidden in the eyes. Every photo, in every frame, and on every wall showed both of them, Louis and Harry, looking at the camera (or at each other) with the same relaxed dedication that came from letting every fear go. They were being honest to every passing eye over them.

Harry knew it wasn’t meant to be for him, but he felt spoken to. He picked up a polaroid photo, just of him and Louis in a dark room both holding red plastic cups, and walked back to the couch. A future moment for him, but a past photo for his reality, was telling him that there was no pain waiting.

He didn’t know if he could trust it forever, but at least Harry knew there would be moments it all hurt a little less.

* * *

He hadn’t intended on staying awake most of the fourth night in his ghostly home.

It started with a restless nap in the living room. On the couch, he was cramped and became hyper aware of how much he’d grown involuntarily. He rolled over and back, nearly falling off the couch in an exasperated huff, before sulking off to his room.

In bed, the emptiness preceded him. Every thought, movement, blink, and dream was interrupted by the missing weight beside Harry. The darkness became vast and never ending. It seemed to have eyes, but still no warmth or touch. Harry reached his hand out, hoping it would dip into the mattress and brush against the shivering skin he hadn’t touched in four years.

In the growing absence, the strange, hectic static in Harry’s head grew unignorable. He tossed and turned in attempts to pass the sound off as the shuffling of his sheets. It wasn’t conscious thoughts, not at that time. It was like missing something he had never experienced. Expecting when he knew he wasn’t waiting for anything. Harry’s only attempted cure was to try and mutter and hum over the fuzzy blathering in his head.

He ended up talking himself fully awake in the early hours of the morning. His alarm buzzed beside him, an early call time expecting him to be functional before the sun was up. Harry was on his back, staring up at the ceiling. His hair was matted under his head and his clothes were uncomfortably skewed from rolling over frequently, but there was no way he was going to dress up much more before getting to his plane.

His flight to Australia would be about twenty hours. Just enough time to catch up on all the sleep he’d missed, taking for granted he’d be getting any sleep at all.

“I’m _up_ !” Harry groaned at his phone, turning off the alarm. “I’m up, I’m up, stop _screaming_ at me.” His phone was silenced after a few pawing attempts to turn off the alarm.

He flopped back onto his pillows and rubbed his eyes. Every bit of him still hoped he’d open his eyes to his small cramped bedroom. Still though, the room was vast and the other side of the bed cold.

He climbed out of bed to begin dressing himself. Harry had discovered a mostly packed duffel bag sitting in his closet-- two actually, but Harry could recognize his own handwriting on one of the tags-- and drug it out to the center of the room to top off. He tossed the rest of his underwear, every last hair tie he could find (because he’d just about had _enough_ of it at the moment), a grinning photo of all five boys that seemed closest to Harry’s previous age on top, and he slipped all his rings and jewelry into the pocket on the side.

More so that day than any other, Harry’s hand felt large and unmanageable. His palms were too wide for his own dexterity and his fingers too slim to be nimble. Wearing rings would only give him something to hyperfixate on. Without them, he could stuff them in his pockets and not think about them again. Until he was practically tying his own fingers in a knot in trying to make a bun.

Within fifteen minutes, Harry had his entire life, or everything he thought could be considered vital to his life, in a bag. It looked heavy, like it would definitely tip Harry over, but his new frame seemed to balance the weight well. He was able to get downstairs to the car waiting for him without any near-lethal injuries.

“Already begun moving house?” The driver asked, getting caught in a surprising patch of morning rush hour traffic.

“Who? Me?” Harry replied, looking up to meet the reflection of the driver’s eyes. Harry felt terrible he didn’t know his name, and had no means of asking without sounding like a dick. “Uh, no. Not… Not yet.”

“Oh, well, I haven’t seen Louis around in a while. Didn’t know if he moved out first. Staggering it, you know?” Harry tried to act like everything made sense. Maybe, on more than forty-five minutes of sleep it would have, but at that moment it sounded like an attempt at convincing gibberish.

“I don’t know what Louis’ doing. Heard he’s buying a house with his girlfriend.” Harry replied, unlocking and relocking his phone. Louis hadn’t called Harry in two days. That morning felt like he should’ve been getting a call or at least being the first one to reach out. Dependency had made Harry unsure of what were premonitions and what was separation anxiety.

“Oh yeah, I heard.” The driver laughed just as Niall had, short and honest. Harry wasn’t sure who was the butt of the joke at that point: the girlfriend or Harry. “I’m sure he’s ecstatic to be doing that-- picking his own house aged you both a near two years. I can’t imagine he likes doing it for shits and giggles.”

“I’m sure he’s happy.” Harry tried not to appear the least bit embittered by the prospect of Louis moving in with someone else. There wouldn’t be a possible sliver of a chance of having Louis wake up beside him ever again then.

“Your delivery has gotten much better, Mr. Tomlinson.” The driver laughed again, shaking his head as they slowly began breaking through the jam.

Harry laughed too, if only to confirm that the entire conversation was suddenly taken to be a joke. “Very funny.” He said, winking at the driver. It was a strange gag to continue to call someone by their enemy’s last name. He didn’t think he could ever get used to the teasing.

They didn’t speak for the rest of the drive. Harry typed out a message to Louis-- _multiple_ texts-- but deleted each one.

_I know I didn’t call you but_

_Haven’t stopped thinking about what you said and_

_I miss you and don’t think I’ll be able to keep this up_

Finally, Harry settled on something simple and at the very least a foot in the door to actually holding a conversation with him. Harry was afraid, for a nervous moment, that Louis wouldn’t want to hear from him, as if they weren’t the only ones they could trust. It was strange how much pretending could feel like real life.

_Rise and shine. See you on the plane x_

He expected no response, no real way that Louis would be looking forward to seeing him. Before Harry could get his phone back in his pocket though, it chimed with a text back. The car was pulling up to the plane, other cars already parked and people carrying luggage. Rather than waiting to see if any one of them was Louis, impatience prevailed and he opened the text.

_How many times do I have to tell you. It’s rise or shine. I’m doing neither._

Harry laughed quietly. The tension rippled through his chest, making his joy come out nearly in a sob. The distance was imaginary. They were convincing themselves just fine; the rest of the band should have no issue.

“Have a wonderful tour, Mr. Tomlinson.” The driver said, reaching back to shake Harry’s hand.

“Thank you very much.” Harry shook his head and ignored the name. He was being far too genuine to tease Harry at the very end. “See you in, well a year I guess.”

Harry hoped he wouldn’t be stuck in this reality for that long. As he got out of the car, he had the fleeting thought of letting his head bang against the frame again; maybe he’d blackout and wake up in his bed all alone again. As much as sleeping alone sounded terrible, at least his house would still hold the promise of new memories with Louis rather than fading echoes.

Crossing the tarmac, Harry saw Zayn and Liam already heading up into the plane. Neither spotted him at first, giving him a moment to tighten his smile one final time before appearing at the bottom of the stairs.

The plane was just for them. There were only a handful of seats and plenty of space for Harry to stretch out his legs; everything seemed cramped to him now. There were a cluster of seats just beyond the door. Harry plopped into the seat directly by the window.

He held his head up with his hands, rubbing his eyes with his fingers. The leather of the seat across from his quietly squeaked, someone joining him. They didn’t speak for a moment, neither acknowledging the other. For a fretful moment, Harry thought it was Louis.

“Tired?” Zayn asked, although it seemed to be less of a bit of small talk and more of an accusation. Harry lowered his hands and blinked to put Zayn in focus in front of him. His eyes were brighter, his face with a flush of color-- but still damped by the frown he directed at Harry. “You look terrible, Harry.”

“I’m fine.” He shook his head. “Trouble sleeping. The flight will help.” He waved at Zayn, as if he could wipe the concern from his face.

“Are you sure everything is okay?” He leaned forward in his seat, his hands folded and hanging between his knees. “I mean, you look like about forty acres of bad road and you’ve been off all week.”

“Thanks.” Harry muttered. He ran a hand through his hair, not sure when it had become a comfort of his.

“Well you do. And now this morning,” He motioned at Harry’s hands, tapping his right one lightly. “you don’t even have your ring on? I-- I’m worried, Harry.”

“My rings?” Harry laughed suddenly, the sentence taking a surprising turn. It felt like a joke. “I’m traveling. I don’t want to wear them.”

“You haven’t taken it off since Louis _gave_ it to you-- and I know you two just decided on that house, so this isn’t really making a whole lot of sense but--”

“Wait, what?” The name had nearly burned him. Harry’s skin felt hot, suddenly flushing and his exhaustion regenerating into thrumming excitement. He was so desperate for Louis, just hearing his name had him grasping. “I-I’ve taken it off before.” Harry tried to pick the least obvious way to get Zayn to backtrack.

“No-- I’m sorry. I’ve _never_ seen you without your wedding ring.”

“My wedding ring.” Harry repeated. The words felt less foreign on his tongue than he thought they should have. Some part of him had known, had been expecting this impact for days. He attempted to spin the ring around his middle finger-- his hands revealing which ring that held the romantic value without a thought.

“Yes. The one you’ve been wearing for about two years straight-- are you doing okay? Are you and Louis fighting that much?” Zayn turned his head to make sure they were still alone on the plane. Liam had stepped back out, most likely to get one of the other boys. Hopefully Niall. “I’ve never seen you guys this distant. And Liam told me you said you two were screaming at each other? What’s _that_ about?”

“Nothing.”

“Harry, I know you guys are married, and it’s none of my business, but we’re your _friends--_ ”

It occurred to Harry only then the reality of being married. Yes, it meant he had a piece of jewelry that people had known the meaning of before him, but that also meant there was someone _else_. There was another side to his entire world that he hadn’t paired up with in four days. Harry hadn’t called a single person except Louis, hadn’t thought of anyone else. Harry and participated in an exchanging of souls, of eternal commitment, and he had only bothered to pick up the phone and call--

“I’m married to Louis.” The sentence tumbled out of his mouth like he’d been hiding the secret from himself, eager to reveal it.

“Yes. You are.” Zayn assured Harry, although eyeing him strangely. “Start acting like it, mate.”

Harry’s chest felt tight, one gasp away from igniting the prickling fire inside of it. He nodded calmly, brain clanking through the scraps of memories he could get his trembling hands on. They’d spent the past four days acting like they hated each other when in this life, this age, they were married. They had promised to love each other, and spent half of a week quarantining themselves.

The weight lifted from Harry’s heart, but a new one settled on his shoulders. For the first time, Harry was finally back to being behind his memories; he had a future that he could see a direct connection to with the life he had left behind. What had Louis shared with him in the days after they abandoned their time?

“Where is he?” Harry asked, pushing himself up by the armrests. “He must be here--”

“I think he’s driving from Eleanor's.” Zayn sounded bitter, like despite his previous comments it was still his answer. “Have to get those photos in before we leave.”

She wasn’t his girlfriend; Louis had been right. The disingenuity wasn’t on his part though, it was on the part of the director staging the show, casting him most likely against his will. For Louis to know that he hadn’t been lying to anyone would be the best news Harry could think to give. His relief would be tangible, Harry reaching out to hold him up.

“I haven’t seen him in three days.” Harry said blankly, staring at the door to the plane.

“Three days? He didn’t stay at your place?” Zayn said, looking at him with knitted brows. “Does Louis even still _own_ his old flat?”

“Yeah, there isn’t much in there. I guess he’s moving all the way into my place-- or the new one?” Harry was trying to put all the pieces together. The conversation from the car started clicking together slowly.

“He’s been living there since you bought it-- isn’t he the one who decorated the place?” Suddenly the mass amounts of photos of Harry in his own home made sense.

“Yeah. He did.” Harry said with confidence. Louis had been surrounding him, even when he thought he was alone. “I’ll be right back.” Harry stood from his chair and dug through his duffel bag. He hurried to the door of the plane. Someone with a look of authority on their face tried to stop Harry, simply asking if he had everything he needed, but he ignored them. Harry took the stairs nearly three at a time, stomping each foot down as he tried to maintain his balance.

Another car had pulled up, Liam and Niall standing and waiting for Louis as he hopped out. He was less disheveled than Harry, his hair slightly more combed and his facial hair trimmed. He looked tired, but still functionally awake. He was grinning and still handsome.

“Louis, can I talk to you?” Harry said, walking right up to him. He now knew that no one around them would see it as strange anymore. He grabbed Louis’ arm, gently tugging him a step away from the group. “Right now.”

“What’s the matter?” Louis responded without any front, hearing the urgency in Harry’s voice.

“I have something to tell you. Just take a minute, guys.” Harry pulled Louis away, just off to the side of the car and a few steps farther from the plane. Niall looked after them with furrowed eyebrows, but didn’t call after them with any questions.

“Harry, what’s wrong?” Louis whispered once they stopped. Harry wasn’t sure what he thought he was going to do or say. He couldn’t just hold him and let the reality of their lives finally catch up with the impostors living it. Neither of them would understand.

“Uh, I just learned something.” Harry muttered, dropping Louis arm. He still had his ring in his other hand, rolling between the creases of his palm. Louis looked down and stilled Harry’s hand, not knowing what was resting inside. Not knowing it was there because of him. Harry opened his hand. “Do you know what this is?”

“Of course I don’t. Why are you asking me, Love?” Louis said apologetically. He picked up the ring slowly, turning it in is hands. “You’ve got quite a few rings. I’m not really sure you can quite ask anyone what they mean… Bit odd, don’t you think?”

“Zayn just told me.” Harry said. He wasn’t sure if building up to it was better. He was trying declarative sentences only at first. “It’s a wedding ring.”

“Yours?” Louis sputtered. He looked over Harry again, trying to see him again for the first time in the new light. He had been seeing him as the seventeen year old living in his flat. Now, like Harry, he was beginning to see him and himself as the grown men they suddenly were. “W-Who is it? I mean, you haven’t seen anyone in days. Has he called?”

“Yes.” Harry said shortly. “We've spoken.”

“Do you know him? I mean, we’ve only been around the boys for the past-- _is it one of them_?” He gasped, nearly considering the thought of being amused by the prospect.

Harry paused, sliding the ring back onto his hand. “It is, yeah.”

“R-Really? Which one?” Louis turned and looked back at Liam and Niall, appearing near the steps as Zayn peered through the window of the plane. “God… which one?”

“Louis.” Harry said.

“Hold on, I want to guess… Before I wake up from this dream.”

“Louis.”

“Okay, sorry. Terrible joke. Go on, Haz. I’m sorry.”

“Louis.”

“ _What_ , Love? What is it?”

Harry blinked. “Don’t make me tell you again.”

“Tell me what?” Louis asked, head turning to face Harry, his hair whipping back. It laid over his forehead in a way it used to when he was younger: barely moved out of his own house, trying to learn how to survive with Harry while never letting him fall.

“Louis, I married _you_.”

Louis looked like he had been caught in a sudden rainstorm. Eyes catching on Harry’s anxious and embarrassed face. The pelt of warmth, the constant hitting against his skin, settling underneath in a tingling shock. His lips didn’t bother to part, no words able to form. He closed his mouth and stared at Harry.

“Zayn just told me.”

“That can’t be true.”

“He didn’t seem like he was joking.” Harry said seriously, twisting the ring around his finger.

“He… He must be joking. Taking the piss, surely.”

“That seems like a strange joke if we're supposed to not like each other.” Harry countered with a shrug. He was just as defenseless to the new reality.

“But what about all the news stuff? And Eleanor.” Louis asked. “How do you just explain that away?”

“The same way they explained us away, I guess.” Harry muttered. “But look, Louis, it means you aren’t lying to her. You aren’t being punished. You’re being honest with yourself.”

“With you.”

The heat returned, burning the inside of Harry’s lungs. His chest felt tight and his stomach twisted. The urge to hold Louis, to have his lips on his own was back. It was the only response Harry thought to have. There were no words coming to mind, only the instinct to hold Louis close and coax the tension from him with a slow swipe of his tongue.

“Think it’s on purpose?” Louis asked, looking around at the team surrounding them. “Is that what Lisa’s job is? Managing _me_?”

Harry hadn't considered it, but maybe-- just maybe-- there were moves in place to shelter them from the world, or simply themselves.

“I guess everything’s a lot worse off than we thought.” Harry muttered, looking at Louis with the longing of lost time. Four years worth.

Louis took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. “Jesus, Harry. I don’t know what to say…” Maybe he felt the same way Harry did.

“Would you like to sit next to me on the plane?” Harry offered, disguising his selfishness for normalcy.

“I’d like that, yeah. Very much.” Louis nodded. “We can start there.”

They really were starting out. They had previously come close to almost confessing their feelings, to almost pressing their lips together in the confirmation holding both of them hostage. But they hadn't. Instead they were at square one while this future age had married them and left them scrambling for familiarity in a life they knew everything about each other.

“I'll walk you on the plane.” Harry said, holding his hand out. “I know you hate flying.”

“Says who?”

“You always hold my hand when we fly, and those are only short flights.” Harry said quietly, taking Louis’ hand only after he offered it. “But I never said _I_ was scared.”

Louis bit his lip. “It was a genius excuse.”

“Come on. We have to go.” Harry smiled at Louis, genuine and in the way only they knew. “They think we're fighting.”

“I acted like we hated each other.” Louis laughed, following Harry as he walked back toward the plane. “During rehearsal, when Zayn pulled me aside, I was a _dick_. I acted like I didn’t care-- I still feel terrible, Haz. I’m sorry.”

“We both didn’t know what to do.” Harry said, squeezing Louis’ hand. The fault couldn’t land on either of them.

“We still don’t.” Louis said with a smile.

“But at least we know we don’t have to lie.”

They climbed the stairs, loosely hand in hand, and reentered the plane for the final time. Harry took his seat across from Zayn and Louis timidly asked if he could sit beside him. Zayn laughed as Harry genuinely offered the space up to him. But he believed them.

They really were a couple. Sharing space and love and touch. Grazing hands on armrests between chairs and waking in shared beds-- and avoiding the emptiness that grew from doing so alone.

* * *

Louis really did hate flying. He hadn't grown out of it. Luckily, Harry was able to grip his hand with reassurance and finally be the one to calm Louis down. Zayn was still across from them, watching their behavior quietly. He was trying not to pry, it was obvious, but he kept parting his lips like he had a question.

Luckily, Liam was braver.

“Is it alright if I ask what's been going on the past few days?”

“Huh?”

“What? With us?” Harry asked. “Oh, we're fine.”

They blinked at him. Liam set his jaw and lifted his eyebrows. Niall was on the other side of the aisle and snorted with a laugh quietly. He kept his head ducked and looking at his book.

“Okay. So maybe a different word…” Louis muttered to Harry. “They aren’t idiots.”

“We’ve just been… out of sync lately. With each other.” Not the clock or time in its entirety or anything like _that_.

“Everything alright at home?” Zayn looked between them, his eyes falling on their hands gripped on the armrest. “Heard you were still in your old flat, Tommo. That true?”

“Needed some space.” Louis shrugged. He fixed his eyes away from the window and on Zayn’s face. He was convincing and Harry wasn’t sure it was a lie.

“But you’re okay now, right?” Harry asked. His hand relaxed in Louis’, ready to pull away at any answer.

“Much better.” Louis looked at Harry, and for only a moment he looked nineteen again. His face was round and closely-shaven. He was the most beautiful boy Harry had ever laid eyes on, no matter the age. He wondered if Louis was getting glimpses of him through time, at the boy he left in his bedroom four years ago.

“Still moving out of London?” Liam asked with a smile. Harry furrowed his eyebrows, trying to collect as many laid out clues as quickly as he could.

“Yeah. Slowly.” Harry agreed. “Don’t want to be too uh, obvious or anything.”

“You’ve been trying to move since _last_ tour.”

“Exactly.” Louis cut in, as if annoyed by the misunderstanding on Liam’s part. “We’re not exactly there now, are we?”

“I-- I suppose that makes sense.” Liam said, blinking quickly. “I just never took either of you to be taking anything slow.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Louis had an edge to his voice, defending himself against an unknown enemy. A defense of Harry’s own flared up as Louis tensed, annoyance revealing itself to be fear. He spoke quietly and instinctively, all but whispering in Louis’ ear.

“Baby, come on.”

The name was on the tip of Harry’s tongue long before he realized it. It never existed there before. He had never had the urge or thought to label Louis as baby, _his_ baby. Harry never thought he’d ever love someone that much where their name was an afterthought to the overwhelming and tongue-tying love he felt when he looked at them.

Apparently, Louis felt the same way. His head whipped to face Harry, eyes wide and searching Harry’s eyes for the seventeen year old he’d woken up with days before. It was like they’d suddenly become their adult selves without their permission. It was overwhelming to suddenly be whole with his own foreign body, but seemingly be trying to do the same with the one beside him.

“Let us know if you need any help moving when we get back, yeah?” Niall said across the aisle. “If that’s what’s causing problems, we’re more than willing to help out.”

“No, we can handle it.” Louis said. “What’s a few boxes, right?” Louis gave Harry a look suggesting that their past week would make anything in their future seem like a day off.

“Exactly.” Harry nodded.

As they settled into silence, Harry tried to imagine what their new home would look like with Louis more evidently strewn about the halls. Maybe Louis already was there, and Harry was unfamiliar with how the older Louis manifested. Maybe it was less dirty clothes on the floor and reused tea bags and instead pristine counter tops and nicely written notes on bathroom mirrors.

Granted, there was already evidence of Louis in the decor, now that Harry had all the pieces to see as such; Louis picked all the photos hanging around their home. There were so many pictures of group accomplishments that held secret moments between the two of them. Secrets that Harry couldn’t gather even from staring at them for hours. He could see the adoration and flush on his own face, but he’d been begging to know why.

Photos were meant to be loud; Harry wanted to hear the memory that was supposed to flash as he looked at the photo. Wanted to hear the giggling, hear the muttering of his name soft and sweet, the taste the icing smeared over his face--

“Wait, so Louis and I are at a disagreement over something.” Harry said, looking to his friends and ignoring Louis’ confused expression. “We have this picture in my-- _our_ house and I’m completely _covered_ in frosting. Louis insists I’m telling the story wrong. Can someone please set the story straight?” Harry tried not to smile too smugly; he was a pretty damn good liar sometimes. As long as he wasn’t lying to Louis.

“Oh, your birthday? It wasn’t that long ago.” Zayn said.

“Totally Louis’ idea.” Liam said with a laugh. “You had just barely taken the last candle out when he snuck up behind you.” A phantom gripped the back of Harry’s neck. He tensed with the sudden fear he’d be thrust forward again. His mind might not have known anything, but in that moment, his skin seemed to have a memory.

“You were playing with my hair.” Harry said blankly to Louis, trying to fix his face afterward to sound accusatory. “You tricked me.”

“I did not.”

“You did!” Harry nodded, more confident in his own unlived memory. “You distracted me and tried to put my nose through the table!”

Louis knew he probably did. He hadn’t changed that much. “You wear it well.”

“It stained your skin for at least a day.” Niall laughed. “Good cake though. I have to give Louis that.”

“You baked me a cake?” Harry betrayed his own deception and asked a stupidly straightforward question. Liam lifted an eyebrow and Zayn waited for the punchline. Harry quickly gave him one. “That sure doesn’t sound like Lou.”

“He bakes you one every year.” Zayn said, unamused by Harry’s failed joke. “Literally every year. He did it on Sunday.”

In both Harry and Louis’ stunned silence, Liam began laughing. He found humor in their own denial of warm gestures. Harry started laughing too, mostly to keep the appearance he was having fun with his future life, and quickly began twisting his wedding ring. Maybe if he wished and prayed and spun it fast enough, it’d put him back in his freezing cold room.

It was simple, knowing his husband made him a cake every year. It was simple, a fact that someone that had remembered the every loving moment of the past four years would and should know. Harry’s brain had lapsed in all helpful memory. He was positive he’d jumped through time, because if he had truly lived through this life, why would he want to forget any of it?

Knowing Louis practiced something, consciously worked on something for him, was so painfully warming, Harry didn’t know if he was able to process it at his current mental age. He’d never had anyone do something like that for him. He never thought anyone ever would. He never thought he and Louis would get that chance.

“Hilarious.” Zayn deadpanned. “He’s almost burned down our kitchen twice. Don’t act like you’ve forgotten.”

“Your jokes keep getting worse.” Liam said, although he was laughing.

“Worse? They were never bad.” Harry said indignantly.

“Are you feeling okay?” Zayn said, lifting an eyebrow and lifting his chin. “Did you hit your head again when no one was looking?”

“I--I just need to get some sleep.” Harry shook his head and removed his hand from Louis’ to run through his hair. He returned it after a moment of freedom.

“You’ve got quite a bit of time for that.” Louis said with a nod, encouraging the change in subject. “I think I might try too.”

Harry sighed and was relieved; he wouldn’t be sleeping alone again.

* * *

The plane’s wheels bounced on the tarmac and Louis visibly exhaled and went lax against his seat. His grip around Harry’s hand had tightened as altitude decreased and they could feel the pressure change and flip their stomachs. As promised and anticipated, it had been a long flight. Louis changed seats and walked through the cabin to try and shake the feeling he was trapped in a plane. Harry slept through most of it. While Louis wasn’t beside him how he had hoped, he was at least within touching distance. Harry could reach out as Louis passed his chair and brush his hand, grab a finger, poke his leg. He could see his best friend and show to be as such. Tensions melted away and Harry was able to sleep. His feet were still cold.

Liam, Zayn, and Niall were running in a routine as they exited the plane. Louis and Harry followed along, pretending they were far more distracted by their own domestic discussion to be cohesive with the group. It was only about half right.

“We’re moving in together?” Louis asked quietly, taking the stairs down to the tarmac. “When did we get married though?”

“Hey, we just came from a time when we lived together. I’m surprised we moved out in the first place.” Harry said, lifting his eyebrows. “God, nothing makes sense.” Including how easily Louis was glossing over the sudden news.

“When we do this a second time, I’m taking notes. This is bullshit.” Louis grumbled, hitching his bag over his shoulder.

“You really think we’ll do this again?”

“I hope so.” Louis said, stepping toward Liam who was waving him over to the car. “Life isn’t fun if you wake up with all the hardest parts over. And a love story sure as fuck doesn’t work that way either.”

A love story. Not a happening of reciprocated feelings, but a long lasting commitment and connection between two people with new chapters and conflict building into a complex tale written just for two. Louis thought they were a love story. He’d woken up in the middle of a life he had no control over and no idea about, and thought-- _knew_ \-- that what he had with Harry wasn’t minimal.

Harry didn’t want to wake up halfway through it either. He didn’t want to let sleep lay claim on four years of his life he’d been waiting for. Any wrongs he’d done in the past, Harry wanted to be responsible for. He wanted to know his own mistakes. All the half awkward memories he shared with Louis when they were stupid and young he wanted to remember with a confident and warm smile. There should be no second hand information in building a strong marriage. Then it was just a lie.

“You bake for me every year.” Harry said with a laugh. “Promise you’ll remember that when we go back.”

“If I remember anything at all, it’ll be that.”

_If._

It could all go away the minute Harry’s eyes fluttered open in his cramped bedroom. His glimpse into the complicated and fulfilling future could become a void memory, teaching him absolutely nothing but deeper heartbreak.

As they approached their car, and began hearing the rest of their day’s short but important schedule, Harry tried to revoke all his prayers. He didn’t want to go back if he couldn’t remember the future that would be promised to him by his own love and perseverance. He’d rather stay and suffer the amnesia than lose his courage all over again.

* * *

First show of the tour and Harry wasn’t sure who had convinced him he was meant to be a performer. As he tried to drink up before the show, his hands trembled and poured water down the front of him. He changed his shirt three times. Louis was thankfully allowed to be much closer to him, hovering in and around his space whenever it seemed Harry would call the entire performance off in a shallow gasp.

Louis hadn’t brought up their marriage again, and neither did Harry. It wasn’t ignored, Harry blatantly responding to anyone looking for “Mr. Tomlinson”, but it wasn’t analyzed. There was nothing more to say, it seemed. Harry’s phone still went off with articles sent to him with an amused emoji detailing a relationship Louis didn’t have. And he and Louis stayed married. There wasn’t much else to say. There was so much they didn’t know.

It was funny though, after a pre-show group chant the three other boys quickly abandoned them. They stepped away with their eyes directed at their shoes or at their microphones and left Louis and Harry alone. They were confused, but Harry had an idea, had another tactile memory that clued him in on a pre-show ritual he’d forgotten. He didn’t tell Louis and followed him on stage.

The show was far more than Harry could handle. It was exhilarating, the rush pulsing through Harry’s veins. It was the only thing that kept him from crumpling at the end of the stage again, or throwing up between songs. After the encore, once they were backstage and hidden in the dim lighting, Harry dropped to the floor and sat with his head in his hands.

Louis stopped first, sitting cross legged beside him. The crew was yelling that they had to keep moving but Louis jeered them off. He placed a hand on Harry’s back and eased him back into the much needed silence of backstage with quiet whispering.

He told Harry he was beautiful on stage. That his presence was a growth he hadn’t seen coming-- and he felt guilty for not giving Harry that much credit. Louis told Harry that when they eventually grew out of this age, if they ever did, Harry was going to become a rockstar, and he was just pleased to be his best friend. He’d get to watch it all happen.

Harry sat down for fifteen minutes before someone nearly picked him up from the floor. Louis stepped in front of Harry and held the security crew member back. The loyalty was instinct and Harry’s fluttering heart was growing habit. Louis helped Harry up slowly, gripping his arm and back. He took all of Harry’s tech off and handed it off with a gracious thank you to a crew member.

Louis walked Harry back down to the bus, helping him up the stairs and into a seat. Harry didn’t know how Louis already knew what to do. Maybe they were instincts he was feeling on his own. In a delicate burst of desperation, as Harry’s nerves still shook him, he grabbed Louis’ hand and pressed his head against his shoulder. He took slow, heaving breaths.

“I think I’m going to throw up.”

“Okay, don’t do that.” Liam said, stepping into the bus. “What’s going on? You did a fine job, mate.”

“I-I’m fine.” Harry pushed himself away from Louis and tried to appear collected. He regretted it immediately; Louis’ hand retracted from trying to rest against the back of Harry’s head. “I think I just need some rest. Try again next show-- get back into a routine.”

“We’re on our way to the hotel. We’ll get you to your room and you can sleep this off.” Liam sat on the other side of Harry. He placed his hand between his shoulders, gently moving his thumb back and forth.

It was a more timid and delicate touch. Louis held onto Harry with purpose and fright. If Harry could articulate himself, it would be whatever words Louis’ quick and gentle movements were saying, not only to Harry but the rest of the bus. Everyone was quiet, but watched with intent. Listening.

“Can I just sleep here.” Harry sighed.

“You need to shower, Harry. You know you’ll get upset midway through the night that you’re sweaty.” Louis said, knowledge coming from a time they both remembered. No marriage required.

“I don’t care. I’m comfortable now.”

“No, you’re exhausted.” Zayn said, gently nudging his feet as he sat down across from them. “Since when do you not want to sleep in an actual bed? Don’t be dramatic. We pull up in a few. Get up, take a shower, and get in a real bed.”

“Maybe we should all get some sleep.” Louis tried to redirect some of the parental sounding advice to the rest of the group. Harry was beginning to fear he was showing his age.

“Agreed. What bunk do you want, Tommo?” Zayn picked himself up and thumbed back toward the bunks.

The confusion passed easily from Harry’s face onto Louis’. There was an assumption that they’d sleep apart. It must’ve been a preference neither could understand with the knowledge that could be offered by their friends. It was common when they were alone at home, when they were younger and lovesick, but married and thousands of miles from home, it became a separation act. Hotels had eyes but buses did not, and a bed did sound promising. In all honesty though, it might’ve sounded better if there would be a promised boy lying on the other side, quietly grumbling for Harry to stop moving or stealing another blanket.

But Harry couldn’t be greedy; it still wasn’t his life. He was still a visitor.

“Just give me whatever one you don’t want.” Louis shrugged, still gripping Harry’s hand. “As long as I can conk out, I’m fine.”

“Great, usuals.”

“Usuals.” Louis repeated, the word sounding sour in his mouth. There was nothing comforting about a routine neither of them had learned. “Will you be okay on your own, Harry?”

“I’m not a child.” Harry snapped. Louis remained even and neutral, looking at Harry with patient eyes. “I mean, yeah. I--I should be. Thank you.”

“Call me if you need anything when you get up to your room.” Louis said. He moved like he wanted to kiss Harry on the cheek, but played it off as bad suspension on the bus, rocking him forward and back. To be polite, neither noted it.

“It’s just sleeping in a hotel. I’ve done it before.” Harry said with a shrug. “I’ve woken up in stranger places.” But at least he had Louis with him the first time.

* * *

The bus stopped and Harry filed off the bus with his bag and Liam and Niall behind him. He waved goodbye to Louis and shuffled off the bus. He still felt hollowed, his nerves shaking his bones and leaving them to echo in their relaxed absence. Someone from their team told them important times and dates and room numbers, but Harry only had the brain capacity to either listen or blink without letting his eyes stay closed. His eyes were kept open and appeared falsely alert.

He was roomed on a separate floor than the other boys. The extra ride in the elevator, alone and unsure, brought Harry back to his seventeen year old life. Where was his normalcy? Where was his ability to crumple under pressure and need the loving support of someone he trusted?

He was nine floors down and curled up in a bus bunk.

To try and shake his performance nerves, Harry immediately dropped his bag by the door and headed for the bathroom to shower. It was the first time in Harry’s life a shower felt lonely. As he closed his eyes and scrubbed his face and hair, he kept feeling the continuing urge to peek through the stream of soap to look over his shoulder. No matter how many times he looked, or opened his curtain, he was the only person in his hotel room. It was horrendously disappointing.

He wasn’t sure if it was his crashing anxiety that called for company, or Harry’s new found understanding of his instincts to remain in touch with Louis. One was a request to not be alone, another was a desire to be complete.

Harry dressed slowly, digging out the right clothes from his suitcase. Everything felt strange on his body again. The shirts were too loose and let his stomach roll in on itself as he sat down, reminding him how it had changed in only a week. Harry sat in a shirt he wasn’t entirely sure was his own-- it was tight over his shoulders as if it belonged to someone _smaller_ \-- with long flannel pants and stared at the wall. He was transfixed on a scuff spot in the off-white paint. It sure as hell beat being hyper focused on his body or the many mysterious art pieces painfully stuck into his skin.

God, he was lonely and _so_ fucking cold.

His suitcase was strewn over half the floor of his hotel, but he couldn’t seem to find thick socks. None. Not one pair. There had to be a pair between the five of them. Harry stood from his bed and tried to remember where any of the other boys were sleeping. If he remembered, Harry wouldn’t feel right barging on either Liam or Niall. It was better to just go to the bus. Bother the only person he cared to run into at one in the morning.

Harry grabbed his room key and shuffled out into the hallway. His hair was wet and drying on his shoulders and his clothes were ill-fitting on both ends of the spectrum; he’d go unnoticed. The floor of the elevator was cold on his bare feet, Harry regretting not thinking to slip into his shoes or at least steal a pair of slippers. The lobby was empty and Harry made his way to the back exit, out the end of a stairwell.

As he went to knock to try and get on the bus, Zayn suddenly made an exit. He was half asleep, his cell phone pressed to his ear. He smiled at Harry and clapped him on the back as he walked off, going in the same door Harry came from. The bus was left completely to the two of them-- provided Louis was still awake.

“Louis?” Harry said, stepping down between the row of bunks.

“Yeah, Haz?” A hand stuck out from under a bunk curtain and waved Harry over. He wasn’t quite conscious yet, but Harry heard his shuffle and try to wake himself. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you have any socks?” He was there for far more, but all he could bring himself to ask for was socks.

“Socks? In my bag.” He pointed to his bag at Harry’s feet. Harry slowly unzipped it and began digging around. He passed shirts he knew to be his own stuffed in Louis’ bag before finding a useful pair of thick, padded socks.

“Thank you.”

“Is everything else okay?” Louis asked, pushing the curtain back. He reached out to grab Harry, trying to define him in the dim lighting.

“I don’t know.” Harry answered after a moment. “My room isn’t right. It’s haunted or something.” That was the only way Harry could possibly explain to another person how it felt to feel the presence of someone he was only hoping for.

“Haunted?” Louis repeated. “Wrong company or just no company at all?” He knew Harry too well.

“None at all.” Harry muttered. He stepped into Louis’ touch, his fingers curling around Harry’s forearm.

“Get over here.” Louis tugged Harry closer to his bunk and began slipping back. “My bunk is too lonely.”

The bunk was far too small for them both, but Louis pulled Harry in anyway. Louis was pressed against the wall and Harry laid with half his right shoulder hanging off the edge. Despite being being crammed into the tight space, Harry never felt smaller. Every waking moment felt lonely, except when he was beside Louis. He didn’t understand from where the ache stemmed; they were married. There wasn’t anything else Harry thought he could want.

Why didn’t he feel in love?

“I know you’re right here,” Louis started, looping his arm behind Harry’s shoulder to keep him on the bed. “But I miss you.”

“I do too.” Every breath was a sigh. Every thought was a fleeting memory. Every wish was for Louis.

“How did it get like this?” Louis asked. “How are we enemies to everyone but each other? What did we do?”

“I don’t think we can blame ourselves.”

“Who else is there?”

Harry had no names, but he was sure he had met them at some point in the shuffling of managers and bosses. It was far beyond his understanding, or something he could try to rationalize with explanation, but it wasn’t unbelievable. Harry could live with protecting his own heart and love, but he couldn’t bear to know, that even clueless about his world, Harry could feel the loss. It was buried deep in him. It had become tangled in his love. The more he wanted Louis, the farther they were moved apart. And it didn’t seem like either of them were going to ease up any time soon.

“I know we’ve probably said it before at this age, so it’s not a big deal but…” Harry turned to look at Louis, dangerously close to his lips. He wouldn’t even have to finish his sentence. “But I kind of want to tell you that… that I love you.”

“I love you too.” Louis said, placing his hand on Harry’s chest. “That’s the one thing I’ve known since waking up in this body. The one thought I bothered to remember.”

“Me too. I-I thought I was still just fancying you.” Harry blushed. He looked away from Louis’ lips and focused on his hand instead. It rested on him, just as it had been under their blanket years ago. This time, the hand looked different. It was covered in tattoos, symbols Harry didn’t understand. He reached up and took Louis’ hand in both of his own, studying his palm and the callouses gently lining the base of his fingers.

“Imagine that. Having a crush on your husband.” Louis laughed, letting his hand go slack in Harry’s grip.

“Imagine being surprised you woke up in bed with your husband.” Harry added, his laugh growing.

His chest shook and Louis giggled as he tried to keep Harry on the bunk. He grabbed Harry with both hands, his one arm stretching over his body and pinning Harry’s hands underneath. Their exposed skin pressed together.

“I never thought I’d ever say it, but I think I sleep worse when I’m alone.” Louis said, tugging Harry firmly back on the bed before loosening his arm. “Or maybe just when I sleep without you.”

Harry grabbed Louis’ arm and wanted to loop it back over his waist. There was still a bit _more_ of himself sitting on his hips than Harry was still comfortable acknowledging, but Louis’ grip was unafraid and loving. Harry let his fingers take their own time running over Louis’ hand, guiding it back to his side. The art under his skin proved to be an excellent guideline. The rope’s outline carefully looping Harry’s fingers around his wrist.

“Hey, wait.” Harry’s fingers stopped and gripped Louis’ wrist to pull it up to his own. “That’s pretty funny.”

“What is?” Louis turned his head and rested it on Harry’s chest for a moment, trying to get his direct eye line. “Rope and anchor.”

“It’s like they…. Wait--” Harry could feel his breath hitch. Louis lifted his head from Harry, having heard it too. “Do they… match? Or is that just me.”

Louis was quiet. They did.

“They go together.” He said softly.  “Like us.”

“Do we love each other that much?” Harry asked, terrified by the thought somehow. He didn’t deserve that kind of love. It was too pure, too loyal. There was something Harry loved in this world that he wanted to announce, wanted to belong to every moment he was alive, whether he was showing the world or not. Harry loved one person more than his own solitude; with the matching tattoos he’d never be alone. And Harry didn’t want to be. “We made it that far?”

“We made it farther, Love.” Louis said. His fingers traced the curve of Harry’s anchor over his wrist. “We’ve made it much, much further.”

Harry didn’t think and leaned in to kiss Louis. The moment their lips pressed together, off center at first before slotting together, every part of Harry exhaled. He pressed his chest against Louis’ and could feel himself trying to melt into him. The tingling under his fingers and the swelling in his chest dissolved in a flutter of joyous relief. He didn’t know what he was doing, but his heart did. It had found what it was aching for.

As this Harry, in this whirlwind world whipping around them, he needed Louis to ground him. It was a dependency, a safety in Louis that he needed and loved to feel.

It was overwhelming for Harry at first, feeling every part of his body seize up and relax at once. If he wasn’t already horizontal, Harry was sure he would’ve collapsed. Louis slid a hand up to cup his jaw, pulling Harry’s head back and angling it down to him. It was like Louis was convincing every quaking nerve in Harry to give in and settle back together with him.

His body knew Louis’. Their hands grabbing and tugging along each other’s backs. There wasn’t much more room but they tried to get closer regardless. They were clueless to what was happening and Harry was defenseless to the heat he felt in his entire body, but they weren’t backing down. It was the promise they’d been waiting for. The assurance it wasn’t a nightmare after all.

Harry never found anything to dislike about Louis. He decided he loved everything about Louis and had married him long ago.

Harry trusted his future now. He knew it would all work out.

“Louis,” Harry’s lips ghosted over Louis as he whispered. His hands were still grabbing and pulling Louis to him. It was strange and he still felt lost, but Louis never stopped falling into him. “Louis.”

“What, baby, I’m right here.” Louis’ one hand had left Harry’s face to grip his hip. His fingers rested, splayed and firm, over the curve of Harry’s waist. Strangely enough, it occurred to Harry then, that it was only his own body that felt strange.

“N-Nothing. Kiss me again.”

Louis did, fast and frantic, and Harry felt his heart drop. It wasn’t nerves or even uncertainty. It was a settling in his chest, his heartbeat racing but not derailed. These hearts, the two beating together in the older selves they’d found themselves in, were closer together than Harry knew how to navigate. Harry wasn’t the one in control, and for once it wasn’t terrifying.

Everything about Louis was home.

* * *

Falling asleep had never been easier.

In a half committed thought, Harry suggested they sleep in his bed in the hotel. It was an innocent enough idea. The room wouldn’t be lonely anymore. By the time they actually began to fall asleep, it was two hours later and both were in various stages of trying to get redressed.

Louis had asked to see all of Harry’s tattoos, to be able to track them onto the ones on his own skin. It was strange to be near-naked in front of Louis, and have him the same in front of Harry, but their hands slid over the skin with confidence of long time lovers.

It didn’t occur to Harry that in reality, they were. He had probably been with Louis in every way imaginable, and in ways he probably hadn’t yet. It was strange to have everything be a first, but to feel like he’d done a thousand times already and to know he actually had.

Falling asleep felt like waking up from a dream.

* * *

When Harry blinked awake, he was freezing. It was drilling into the tips of his toes and snaking up his muscles. As he shivered, he opened his mouth to apologize to Louis but found his warmth absent. Harry felt a void but not as heavy as his halved heart.

“Harry?” Louis’ voice echoed to his room like a siren’s call.

“Louis!” Harry cried, throwing his blankets back. He was still only in his underwear, but the legs swinging over the mattress were the length he remembered. He stood without faltering and raced to the door.

It opened before he even touched it.

The room and living room were still dark, but Harry could see where the darkness ended and Louis began. He reached out to him, allowing himself to be scorched by Louis’ bare skin. Louis did the same to him, gripping and squeezing his arms and sides.

“Oh my god it's you. It's really you!” Louis’ hands reached up to take Harry's face. He didn’t have to reach up. “God, you're so beautiful. My little Haz. My--”

His husband.

“Louis, I don't want to forget what we said.” Harry said quickly, almost in an exhale. He didn't even humor the thought it had been a prolonged dream. He’d felt true, matured love.

Harry could see everything clearly; his hands were scaling the length of Louis’ back and tracing his soft, lesser defined back muscles. The sight was beautiful and all his still.

“No. No we won't.” Louis promised. “Kiss me.”

There was no question, no need for an answer. Harry found Louis in the dark and pressed their lips and bodies together. Harry was still grounded by the warm pressure of Louis’ hands on his body. Louis’ hand trailed along his cheek to his shoulders, down to his hips and around his back. He was being pulled in, convinced all over again that they were one.

It wasn't going to take four years this time.

“I don't want to let you go.”

“Don't. Please don't.” Harry pleaded, his words trying to be spoken from Louis’ lips. He knew what he was asking, from Louis now and also down the line. He couldn't help but want to lessen his already growing fear of heartbreak.

Louis kissed Harry firmly, lips moving slowly but with the pull to keep Harry suspended in time and heat.

“I won't. I won't leave you alone for a second. I'm all yours, Harry.”

“I want to be.” Harry said, the words fumbling out and making partial sense. “I've only ever known you-- being _yours_.”

The empty promises of night, the threats of timid sunrises, showed them both that separation was no longer an option. Their hearts had lifted their blindfolds. They had spent their lives knowing the other so well, finally able to see and know who they were missing.

The future seemed to promise lies and strategy and unfulfillment, for a small time it seemed, but Louis was a part of every vision. The peace that settled in Harry stomach and around his heart was worth every play-pretend. They woke in the same bed, manifesting as two new versions of the same souls directly next to each other; they were latched onto the other and weren't able to let go if they tried.

“I want to finish what I started before.” Louis admitted. “What I was saying…”

Harry nodded but also, couldn't help but laugh. He was nervous, as if Harry wasn’t already vividly aware of how it would all end-- and eagerly so.

“I want to talk too. I want to tell you everything.”

Louis kissed Harry again. “My everything.” Harry was the only one for him-- they were only right for each other.

“But, maybe we should sleep first.” Louis muttered once they both took the time and brain capacity to breathe.

“Oh.” Harry said, dropping his hands. The darkness expanded under his fingertips. “Uh, sure.”

“I didn't say we'd be doing it alone.” Louis placed his hands on either side of Harry’s face. In the darkness, in a blink, they were older. Beyond four years and seeing their entire lives in the glassy eyes of the other. They’d made it. “Never again.”

**Author's Note:**

> thank you xo  
> would greatly appreciate a kudos or a comment if you liked it-- or stop by on tumblr (@kissyboystyles)  
> reblog post [here](https://kissyboystyles.tumblr.com/post/181989665321/woke-up-with-a-boy-who-looks-just-like-you), if you also feel so inclined


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